Smug Asshole Prince Saves the Day (and Other Tales)
by cellostargalactica
Summary: A collection of tumblr prompt one shots, AUs, and other oddities. There will probably be nakedness. There will definitely be bickering.
1. Chapter 1

**PROMPT: **

**Levi Squad has just been assembled and Auruo's sort of showing off and saying how he's the best of the four. And Petra doubts him and on the first mission Petra is nearly killed but than the asshole prince saves her**

Petra checked the balance of her Three Dimensional Movement Gear and frowned. Something didn't feel exactly right – a catch in the mechanism, perhaps? She was fairly adept at sensing the severity of problems with her gear, and because slightly imperfect balance was more of an inconvenience than an actual risk, she sighed and put it out of her mind. She'd get it looked at when they returned.

She shrugged into her jacket and threw her cape over her shoulders before striding out into the bright daylight, where three men waited for her, talking amongst themselves. Her new partners.

She recognized two of them, and knew them as well as you can know a comrade. The first was Gunther Schultz: reasonable, stern, of the Search column, like she was. The second was Eld Jinn: taciturn, blunt, responsible. A good leader. He was the second in command of the newly formed Special Operations Squad, and with good reason.

She did not know the third man – ashy blond hair, hazel eyes, currently slouched carelessly against the stable with his arms crossed. "Nice of you to join us, Petra," he said, in a voice that instantly put her on edge.

She frowned. "And you are?"

"Wondering what took you so long," he said with a smirk. "We don't have all day. There are Titans to be killed."

"Auruo," said Gunther, scowling. "Give it a rest."

"Now Gunther, don't be jealous," said the man named Auruo, and his grin widened. "You'll catch up to me one of these days."

And like a lens coming into focus, so too did Petra's opinion of Auruo crystallize: arrogant. Smug. Asshole.

She faced him. "Auruo, is it? In my experience big talkers usually need to compensate for something." She smiled sweetly. "You're not trying to compensate for something, are you?"

Eld snorted and Gunther covered his mouth, stifling his laughter. Auruo, for his part, turned red as sunburn. "No," he said, clearly attempting to pass off his reaction as blasé. "And you'll see soon enough."

"I'm looking forward to it," she fired back.

She watched as he saw to his horse, checking that his pack was properly secured and shooting one confused scowl her way before ignoring her completely. How could such an arrogant fool be chosen for this squad?

* * *

They were instructed to intercept any variant Titans while the rest of the expedition made their way to forward camp. "Get accustomed to working together," Captain Levi had said. "No showboating." He did not look at Auruo when he said this, but the squad understood it was for his benefit regardless. Auruo shifted in place and muttered under his breath, and she saw his hands tense on the left hilt of his 3DMG.

The first hour of their mission was largely uneventful. Eld and Gunther spoke in low voices to one another, which meant that she was forced to ride alongside Auruo. She tried to ignore him as much as she could within the parameters of their mission toward achieving unity as a squad – which was not really possible, as she quickly found.

"You know, it's all right to be a little intimidated," he said in what he clearly intended to be an understanding tone, guiding his horse closer next to hers. "I am pretty impressive."

She stared at him incredulously. "You're pretty ridiculous, you mean."

"Ridiculously impressive."

"Saying you are doesn't mean you are," she insisted. "And actually, it's kind of pathetic that you have to try so hard."

"Well, now you're just being cruel," he said, smirking. "I'm just trying to be friendly."

"You're terrible at it," she said flatly.

"Ah, well. I'm not perfect." His grin became smug. "Close, though."

He was really starting to piss her off. "Incredible."

"What, me?"

She narrowed her eyes. "You're the most infuriating, smug, disgusting man I've ever met in my life."

"And I think you protest a little too much," he said. "Fallen in love with me already, have you?"

She gaped at him, for a moment completely unable to process words. "I – what – no!"

"It's perfectly understandable. I'm aware of the effect I have on women."

"If you're talking about making them sick to their stomachs, I'm glad we can finally agree on something!"

"Cut the chatter!" Eld snapped. "Pay attention."

"Yes, sir," said Auruo, and he led his horse away from hers, shooting her another irritating grin. Her stomach curled and her hands tightened on the reins, her face burning with shame. This was not her first mission outside the Walls, yet she had allowed Auruo to get so far under skin that she'd behaved disgracefully, worse than a new Cadet fresh in 3DMG. She resolved to ignore infuriating Auruo for the rest of her life.

Twenty minutes later, she heard a shot in the distance and on the horizon a black plume of smoke curved toward the abandoned buildings directly in front of them. No one spoke, but everyone spurred their horses in near unison, streaking toward the melee. She could see the towering form of a 15m class Titan, surrounded by at least four 8m class Titans, barreling through the Communications line and batting aside soldiers like flies.

Her heart raced. She set her teeth and activated her 3DMG, swinging toward the fray. In front of her Eld grappled the side of one of the taller buildings, and she followed suit – soaring through the air, drawing her blades in a single, smooth motion. She was fast – she was fastest. She closed on one of the smaller Titans first, neatly dodging as it swung a massive fist in her direction. Grapple, thrust, reverse. Every nerve in her body was thrillingly alive, and so aware – of her breathing, of her comrades soaring at her sides, the way they looped in and out of one another's path without so much as speaking. She shot toward the exposed neck of the Titan like a bullet from a gun, her blades cutting deep, her shout echoing against the endless sky.

Even Auruo – Auruo, that arrogant fool! – could clearly back up his boasting; she watched as he rocketed past her position, slicing out the neck of the 15m Titan before she could even blink, his triumphant 'ha!' resonating in some deep place in her. But before she could allow herself to be impressed, he briefly met her gaze and flashed her that smug smile. And she hated him again.

She would remember the next moment in fits and starts. She had been soaring, that she recalled. Sailing from one end of the abandoned village to the other, intent on a 7m Titan about to knock Gunther out of the sky, when she felt something snap at her back, and suddenly she was not soaring but falling. She was going to crash, she –

And she did – she plummeted out of the sky and hit the ground hard, skidding a good five meters before sliding to a stop. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move, and a sharp pain shot through her right leg. Am I stunned, or is my back broken?! She struggled to pull herself upright and inspect her gear when a shadow overtook her.

Two Titans. Both 10m class. Where the hell is the rest of the squad?! But she knew – they were half the village away, cleaning up the rest of the horde. By the time they reached her, she would be dead. Smashed against the ground, or in pieces, or burning in the gut of a Titan.

No. She would not die without a fight. She threw aside her broken blades and drew new ones, screaming a wordless challenge to the advancing Titans. They shambled forward, rictus grins on their faces, and she felt real terror freeze her limbs. But she would not meet the end like a coward. If I'd only had my gear looked at before we'd left …

One Titan reached for her, massive fingers extending, straining. She pressed her blades parallel and took a might swing, and those Titan fingers fell at her side, thudding on the street like tree trunks. But this was no final measure – the Titan merely reached for her with its other hand, and this time she could not get the proper leverage to sever them.

It gripped her, squeezing. She tried to scream, but only a breathless yelp came out. She felt her bones creaking as its grip tightened. They would break, she couldn't breathe – she couldn't breathe! -

There was a blur – that was all she ever saw. A green blur, whirling like a dervish, and the insignia on his cape flashing before her eyes too quickly to be properly marked. She watched the harsh sunlight glint off his blades as he catapulted forward, shifting his balance as an expert would, avoiding the second Titan's attempt to intercept him. She heard the lush tearing of flesh. A crack. Grapple, balance, reverse. He shot toward the last Titan and drew his blades across its neck with an almost surgical strike, sheer power and grace mingled.

The Titan fell with her still clamped in its fist. Her savior landed hard on the street, pushed aside the Titan's burning fingers and swept her quickly into his arms before the smoldering corpse could hurt her. As he gripped her tight, she craned up to look at his face. Ashy blond hair. Hazel eyes. Permanent scowl lines. It was Auruo. "Hold on!" he shouted, and then they were soaring again, whipping faster through the ruined town that she'd thought possible. She had to respect his skill; she couldn't even summon the pride to be grudging about it. Neither his pace nor his balance was thrown off by her additional weight.

"Are you all right?" he yelled.

"My ankle," she said, her lips trembling. "And my gear."

She almost didn't recognize him. Gone was the smug, arrogant asshole from just a few hours ago. His eyes were pitted with something she did not explicitly recognize, and as he carried her, she realized his arms were trembling.

"It's all right," he said with a shaky laugh. "Happens to the best of us."

And in that moment, she loved him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Prompt by Savkobresiaaa: Stuck in the woods, in the cold, alone together, oh my**

Auruo's breath comes out in shallow huffs, billowing like clouds in the freezing air between them. She feels his shoulders shaking.

"Your gear?" he whispers.

"Still works."

"Good."

They huddle together in a half-frozen alcove, close enough that she can nearly taste his fear, yet still with enough distance to put her mind at ease. It has only been a few hours stranded in this cave, and they are already failing. Her principled stand, so important in average conditions, falters as she looks at him – broad shouldered, so much larger than her. If she were to scoot close and if he were to drape his arms around her, she would be engulfed by him.

The thought makes her heart race.

Earlier that day, their squad had attempted to pass through a forest when the snow had come, a freak storm that blanketed the ground in nearly a foot of snowfall and turned the air as cold as a razor. They hadn't been able to see more than an armspan ahead.

And that was when the Titans had found them. They quickly became separated from their squad in the ensuing confusion. She and Auruo escaped only by sheer, dumb chance; they stumbled into a cave small enough to hide them. Now they wait for the storm to pass. And when it does pass, they will make a break for it.

"Th-thought Titans only work in daylight," Auruo chatters.

"Guess not," she say, shuddering.

In theory, they could make it. They could survive until the storm passes, use their 3DMG to escape into the trees and use their last signal flares to alert the forward camp, which is about fifteen kilometers away by her best guess. For now, they are far enough into the alcove that only a 15m class Titan could reach inside. In theory, in theory. She shudders again as another blast of cold air tears through the cave. In theory, none of this should have happened at all.

In reality, her plan will require them to survive the night.

"We should t-take off our gear," Auruo says.

She shakes her head. "If a Titan finds us, w-we won't be able to escape."

"The metal is too cold," he explains. "It'll b-b-be easier to keep warm w-without it."

She's shaking so hard each breath comes out in little halting gasps. Her hands are red raw, stiff with cold – she couldn't take off her gear even if she wanted to. She can't feel her face. "I c-c-can't."

For a moment she thinks that his cheeks darken – but that can't be possible, not here. He reaches forward and unbuckles her belt, pulling it off and setting it aside, where he places his a moment later.

"Maybe w-we should get a little closer–" Auruo says.

"I'm f-fine," she interrupts him. She may be freezing to death, but she still has her pride. She won't touch him, and _not _because she's afraid of how she might react to that touch.

Impossibly, he grins – even touched by cold, it's still one of the most infuriating things she's ever seen. "I w-won't bite," he says, like they aren't stranded in the middle of Titan infested country while a freak storm rages beyond the walls of their cave, like they haven't been separated from their comrades and now only have one another to rely on.

"S-stop it."

He smirks but says no more. She thinks she sees a flash of worry cross his expression, but that can't be right – this is Auruo sitting across from her, close enough that their knees nearly touch. The only thing that worries Auruo is his solo kill count.

The wind howls. Trees creak, branches sway. She can't see out the mouth of the cave anymore – there is only a sheet of white, pressing against her eyes. She pulls her arms tighter around her knees and tries keep herself still.

She fantasizes about a warm bath, how steam tendrils would curl off the water against her skin, hot enough to sear but not scald, and how heavenly it would feel to live there for the next ten years. She thinks of her room, cocooned in a pile of blankets – how even her stiff cot is an improvement to the freezing ground in this godforsaken cave.

She's so cold. It's slowly getting darker outside, though the storm still rages. She fears it will rage through the night. Eleven more hours of this, slowly freezing solid. They will find them years later like they did Ilse Langnar; their identities only distinguishable by the identification on their uniforms. She shudders so hard her teeth rattle.

Across from her, Auruo rubs his chest with strong, methodical motions – she watches his chapped hands, appreciating their shape; blocky palms, strong fingers. She knows she should be trying to warm her chest too, but she can't move her arms. _I don't want him to die,_she thinks. _It would be a waste. _He's a fine soldier, and for all his irritating boasting, more than capable of backing his claims up. _He's kind._This thought she rejects – all he does is nettle her, trying to find a way in. _But that doesn't change that he is kind._

Perhaps he is. When he doesn't think anyone is watching.

_He's handsome._

She tries to reject this thought too, but now that it has taken root it's as if everything he does – from the way he breathes to the motions of his arms, the lean line of his thighs, narrow hips– only serves to confirm it. She shudders.

"P-Petra!"

She realizes Auruo is speaking again. "W-w-what?"

"Your lips are b-blue," he says, and his eyes are startled.

"W-w-w-" She can't get the rest of the word out.

He pauses for only a moment before unclasping his cape. "Hey, uh – I'm g-gonna need your help," he says, flashing her an easy grin. "Keeping w-warm, I mean."

She doesn't understand. He's not nearly as badly off as she is.

"I'll be a p-perfect gentleman, if that's what you're w-worried about."

She can't speak, so she nods. Even if she could have spoken, she would never have admitted to him that before he noticed her condition, she had been appreciating him, and that a small part of her had wondered exactly what an un-gentlemanly Auruo would do, and how much she would enjoy it.

He shifts to her side of the small cave and crosses his legs, lifting her gently onto his lap and pulling her close so that she can lay her head against his shoulder. He wraps his cape over both of them, so that she can't see the storm or the cave, so that it is like they are the only two people in the world. His breath warms her cheek.

"B-better already, yeah?" he asks with a weak laugh. His arms tighten around her.

"Y-yes," she whispers. He's warm, so warm.

"I'm g-gonna rub your back, all right?" he tells her. "You rub your chest."

And he does; he slips his hands under her cape and jacket, and slowly she comes alive under them. Each stroke makes her shiver, and an errant thought chases its way through her mind; how those hands would feel on her bare skin. How is he so warm? She is not imagining things – his face is flushed red, and not just from the cold. He catches her glance after a long while and smiles sheepishly. "Sorry."

"F-for?"

"You look a little overwhelmed."

She's angry again. "I'm t-trying not to freeze to death," she snaps. "It has nothing to do with you."

_Liar._

"That's not what I meant," he says. "I know you're not a big fan of me."

She stares – _that's what he meant? _It's a surprisingly self-effacing thing to come from Auruo, who in her experience is more prone to arrogant posturing than any real introspection. "You don't know anything," she fires back, but the words lack any heat.

His brows furrow and his hands slow, and for a moment it looks as if he is trying to make sense of her, as if she is some vast puzzle that he will never understand. And at that moment, she doesn't understand herself either.

They don't speak for a long time. He resumes his ministrations and she curls against his chest, because it allows her to avoid looking at his face. He is so warm – his cape has trapped their heat, his breathing drowns out the sound of the storm. He smells like soap and sweat, and something heady, distinctly male. She shivers against him, and his arm reflexively tightens around her waist.

"How are your hands still cold?" he asks after a long while, when it is almost too dark to see anymore.

"Bad circulation," she says distantly. She is not paying attention to the cold, or the storm. She is dizzy. She aches.

"Only you," he says with a smirk, shaking his head. "You get off on being difficult."

"Oh, do I?" she snaps. It's like he's dumped a bucket of cold water on her head. Apparently this is his talent – taking her from aroused to pissed in less than a second. _I'll show him cold hands._ She jerkily unbuttons his shirt.

"What are you – shit!" he yelps as she slides her hands over his bare chest. "What the fuck are you doing?!"

"Warming my hands," she says innocently. "Just trying to be less difficult."

"_This _is you trying to be less difficult?!" He trembles as she slides her hands further down his stomach, and she tries to ignore how weirdly good he feels – his hips bucking against her, muscles tensing. He's breathing hard, and not from the shock of the cold.

Later, she will try and make sense of that freezing night in the cave – she will try and pass it off as exhaustion, or reckless abandon. She will attempt to convince herself that she had suffered one too many brushes with death, and it had made her grip on reality tenuous. Later she will blame him for being too warm, too magnetic, for being comprised of parts that perfectly conjure desire out of nothingness, even in the most inappropriate places.

She straddles him, wrapping her legs around his waist, plunging her hands further inside his shirt. A trail of gooseflesh follows her seeking fingers, and she has never known something so satisfying – his visceral reaction to her touch. He swallows hard, and she watches his Adam's apple bob in his throat.

"P-Petra …"

"What?"

His hands hover just over her thighs. "What are you doing?"

"Getting warm," she breathes, and he shudders.

Tentatively he lowers his hands, as if he doesn't quite believe she is telling the truth, as if he thinks this is a joke and she's just waiting for the right moment to laugh at him. She presses her lips to his neck, filled with that maddening, dizzying ache, that acute need for which she has no name. She traces the angle of his jaw with her lips, bringing one hand to his burning face, committing the exact feel of it to memory. When she captures his mouth, he groans and grips her thighs, yanking her so close that there is no longer space between them.

The cold and the storm already seem like distant memories. She can vaguely hear the wind howling, and in the back of her mind she knows she is being unforgivably foolish – they are outside the Walls, cowering in a glorified hole in the ground while the storm runs its course. But the risk somehow amplifies this – makes it stark, thrilling. They could die, so now they should live.

He grips her hips so tightly that she thinks for a wild second he will leave fingerprints in her skin, on her bones. He traces dizzying circles there with his thumbs, and she wonder how he would even have known how to do such a thing. She slides her hands into his hair and kisses his neck, and he makes a low, wanting sound in the back of his throat. She can hardly stand to hear it, can hardly process the sound over her racing heartbeat.

She's aware of him fumbling with the buttons on her shirt – there's a rush of cool air against her chest and then – his hands! She lets out a squeak of surprise, shivering against his freezing palm.

"What?!" he asks, breathless.

"Your hands are cold!"

"Wonder what that's like," he mutters.

"My chest is more sensitive than yours," she argues. "It would have been like if I'd stuck my hand down your pants with freezing hands."

It is too dark to see him clearly anymore, but she can vaguely make out his expression of wide-eyed terror. _"Don't,"_he threatens, but it's too late; she wiggles her hips, pulls at his zipper, and slides her fingers down the front of his pants. She only brushes the tip, but he jerks so violently that for a wild second she thinks she's hurt him.

"Auruo?"

"Fuck," he says thickly. "Ow."

"Ow what?!"

He is utterly miserable. "I bit my tongue."

_Don't laugh, don't you dare laugh, don't –_but she can't help it; the smallest giggle escapes her, and she claps her free hand to her mouth. "Oh, Auruo."

The shock of cold (and in Auruo's case, pain) has brought them crashing back to reality. She realizes that she can no longer hear the howling of the wind, and when she peeks her head out of the curtain his cape has made, she sees that the storm has stopped. At the lip of the alcove she can see gusts of dry snow swirling over the ground. It is almost silent, and a vague feeling of foreboding comes over her. They are no longer insulated by the storm. And this is Titan country.

Slowly, regretfully, they put each other back together. He buttons her shirt, and she buttons his. Her fingers shake when they touch the waist of his pants. Moonlight fills the cave, and she can see him swallow thickly, a little tendril of blood caught at the corner of his mouth. Without speaking, she wipes it away with her thumb.

They remain awake, she curled in his lap, he with his left hand on the hilt of his 3DMG. They each listen intently for rumbling footsteps, crunching snow. She feels him shaking beneath her, and she pulls him close, burrowing her face into his neck.

In the morning, they strap back into their gear and grapple up the tallest tree they can find; an ancient thing at the edge of the forest. Every half hour, they shoot a flare into the sky, and by the fifth they can see their squad and five horses, racing across the snow-tossed plain.

He is respectful of her distance this morning, as if he thinks maybe she'll want to forget what happened last night. But she doesn't. Before their squad reaches their position, she touches his arm.

"Come find me tonight," she tells him.

And after two heartbeats, he nods.


	3. Chapter 3

**PROMPT- PART 2 OF THE FROZEN IN THE CAVE THING PLEASE**

**alright, chorus of insistent anons, i hear you. **

They ride hard for their base behind the safety of wall Rose. After crouching in a dark cave for the last day, the world seems too bright, scoured clean by the storm. Auruo hasn't felt his fingers or toes properly in two days. He hasn't eaten a decent meal in five. As far as expeditions go, this one had been a typical holding failure – no real loses, but no real gains either.

But they're alive; he and Petra. When they pass under the gate of Wall Rose, he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Petra catches his eye, and a small smile turns her lips. His stomach drops to his feet.

"All right, I have to ask," says Erd. "What the hell is going on with you two?"

Auruo stares; Petra's the one actually able to formulate a thought. "What are you talking about?"

Erd frowns at them. "You two are usually at each other's throats, whether we're behind the Walls or not. But now you don't say a word to each other. Your only interaction is to grin at each other like dopes. Again; what the hell is going on?"

"We're tired," Petra says, just as Auruo snaps: "We almost froze to death, you fucking dumbass."

"Being tired hasn't stopped you before," Erd says, one blond brow arching. "Or near death situations, for that matter."

He's onto them.

Petra fixes him with one of the most impressive glares Auruo's ever seen her muster. "I'd have thought you'd be pleased with some quiet."

"I'd have thought too," Erd mutters. But he allows the line of inquiry to drop, and Auruo can breathe again.

From that moment on, they are more careful. He isn't able to make one of his half-conceived cracks at her expense – his mind is still in a worrying state of blankness – so instead they ignore each other. They see to their horses, unpack their gear. They submit to sitrep with Levi separately, informing him in bland, unattached tones what had transpired. Auruo thinks for a moment that he sees a flash of recognition in the Captain's eyes, but the moment passes and they are free to go.

He scrubs at his face with one hand. Maybe he hit his head sometime in the last five days and doesn't remember. But Petra catches his gaze and he knows this isn't true; the force of it rocks him back, a flash of temper in the crease between her brows. She catches his wrist and drags him through the halls, and does all this without saying a word.

His head spins. Technically, there are no rules against fraternization in the Survey Corps. As long as you do your duty without fucking up, you're allowed to do what (and who) you want in what little free time you have. Yet still it's frowned upon, and especially for him and Petra, as members of the Special Operations Squad. The dynamic is a tenuous thing, and entanglements complicate matters. They are expected to perform as one entity while one a mission; if two members are at each other's throats because of anger or desire, well … there's no room for it.

Petra shoves him into an empty room and shuts the door behind them. "What is wrong with you?" she hisses.

"What?!"

"Are you trying to be as obvious as possible?"

It takes him a moment to understand. She'd assumed they would carry on as normal around their comrades. She doesn't want to be obvious. She doesn't want to be obvious because this barely acknowledged desire between them is inconvenient for her. Inconvenient and embarrassing. He's an embarrassment. Abruptly, he is pissed. "No! What is your problem?"

"You can't go around raking me over the coals every day of your life and then the day I kiss you just stop doing it."

"Are you seriously giving me shit for _not _giving you shit?"

"Yes!"

He gets it now. "What was I supposed to do with you grinning at me like a dope?" he demands. "All big-eyed. Tell you to piss off? Am I supposed to read your mind now? Or are you just pissed you're more obvious than you wanted to be?"

"I'm not obvious," she snaps.

He laughs mirthlessly. "Can I win with you, Petra? I give you a hard time, pisses you off. I _don't _give you a hard time, pisses you off. What do you want from me?"

He can tell by her expression that she doesn't know, that she's just as lost as he is – halfway caught between the impulse to scream in his face and the desire to kiss him stupid. He can see that she finds everything about this infuriating, so far away from ideal that maybe it's come around full circle. When she thought about her future she probably had a straight-laced soldier in mind, not a foul mouthed fool like him. Well, he sure as hell didn't daydream about some snappish nag crawling under his skin and making herself a home there, slowly driving him insane. He closes the gap between them, because he's not interested in fighting anymore.

"What are you doing?" she breathes, her eyes wide. He's close enough to feel her heat, close enough to feel her trembling.

He captures his face between his hands, and her skin is hot to his touch. She's burning beneath him, burning like the heart of a star, but she doesn't draw away or curse – she only stares at him with those fierce, wide eyes, and he can't stand it anymore. He kisses her so hard that she gasps under his mouth, her hands fisting in his shirt. He can feel her teeth scrape his lower lip, a raw sound in the back of her throat. She bites, and the pain shoots straight to his groin.

"You're a real piece of work," he growls, slipping one arm around her waist and pressing her close.

"Shut up."

It's not freezing in this abandoned room but she shivers under his needing hands as he slips them up her shirt, her lips parting as he palms her rib cage, brushes his fingers against her stomach, reverses quickly to cup her breasts. He's hardly aware of the world outside now, hardy notices when she starts pushing his jacket off his shoulders, tearing at the buttons of his shirt so desperately that one rips off and skitters across the floor.

"You're gonna fix that later," he gasps as she grips him by the waist, her hard fingers biting into bare flesh.

"Fix your own shirt," she breathes into his mouth, and he shudders.

He underestimated her desire – such a foolish mistake. He knows her well enough, should have recognized that intensity in her eyes as something darker, wanting. He figured that she would be borne along, overwhelmed by how much he wants her – but barely a minute has gone by and already he's half naked, and she's sucking on his neck, running arched fingers through his hair, and he thinks he may actually die. He'll never underestimate her again.

She hits a sweet spot he didn't even know he had– the live-wire skin at the space between his earlobe and neck, and _fuck, _her tongue is right there, sliding, sucking– he moans, his hands clenching into fists, his whole body taunt as a bowstring and thrumming. He isn't exactly aware of pushing her up against the wall so hard that her feet lift off the floor, but she gasps when he pulls at her jacket and tears off her shirt, actually ripping a seam in his insane haste to feel her bare skin against his.

"Now look what you did," she chastises, but there is breathless laughter in her voice.

"God, shut up," he groans into her neck.

She is driving him crazy, everything that she does now; the way he can feel each muscle shift beneath her skin, how she responds to each touch enthusiastically, ecstatically, the way she shudders when he brushes her nipples with his thumb. She is hard and soft in equal measure; lean stomach, strong thighs, but slim shoulders, soft breasts that perfectly fill his hands. "Auruo," she moans, and he's never loved his name more.

And just as abruptly, she takes control. She captures his wrists, forces his hands down. "What-?"

She pulls, she leads. He's walking backward, she forward. She guides him, her hands still closed around his wrists, and he can't look away from her – from her eyes, not even to see where they're going. With a devious little smile that might actually drive him insane, she releases his hands and pushes. He falls – not on the floor, but on a bed – and a little _oof _escaping him as he lands.

He hadn't even realized they'd run into a bedroom. So much for being obvious.

But she doesn't rejoin him immediately. She unbuckles her belts, steps out of her boots, shimmies her pants down her lush hips until she is bare, totally naked. He can't breathe. He reaches for her but she wiggles away, pressing him back down to the mattress with one firm finger. "Wait," she says.

"Petra …"

Slowly, she undoes him. Eases his boots off, her fingers inching up to the waist of his pants, brushing the skin between before sliding them off his hips and flinging them away. She is poised above him, not touching; he sees the muscles in her stomach tense, her breasts shivering as she leans close. He has to touch her, but as he reaches again she captures his hand. "No."

"Fuck, Petra."

"You can't touch me yet."

She's trying to drive him insane. Here she is, her naked body just inches away from his, so close that they share heat, that he can feel her breath warm the risen, live skin of his stomach. "You – _fuck."_

He can't finish his thought, can't remember what that thought even was, because she's taken the length of him in her mouth, her tongue sliding up the underside and down again. His hands clench on the mattress, sheets bunching in his fist. He can't touch her but she touches him – palms flat against his hip bones, sliding up to his stomach then back to brush his thighs, and all the while she bobs, and her mouth is so wet, so lush, she feels so _good – _He thrusts clumsily into her mouth, throwing his head back on the pillow, eyes rolling. He sees stars.

She resurfaces with an audible _pop _that makes her grin, and he can't stand it – he has to touch her _now _or he'll lose his mind. He reaches for her but she captures his wrists again, pinning them over his head. She straddles him, and he can feel the heat between her thighs against his straining erection.

"Not yet," she whispers.

"You're an evil woman," he says hoarsely.

"You like it."

Slowly, maddeningly, she guides him inside – the tip, then right to the hilt in a motion that makes him groan. She turns her hips in insane little circles, her mouth a perfect little _o, _her hands tightening around his wrists as she increases the pace. She is just as wet as her mouth, and he can't breathe or think, he can only watch her move above him, feel her shudder above him, around him, listen to the sated little moans that escape with every stroke.

She releases his wrists, and he takes this as the permission he's so desperately waited for – he surges upright and wraps his arm around her waist to keep her from falling over, his palm slapping against skin of her back. She shudders again when he touches her, kisses her neck, captures one nipple in his mouth and flicks it with his tongue, and it is maddening – _she is maddening. _Before she can make a sound, he's pinned her in one smooth motion, thrusting so hard that the bed rattles against the wall.

She throws her head back, a cry caught in the back of her throat. He slings her leg over his shoulder and drives deeply, shuddering when she gasps, her back arching. She reaches for him –bracing against his shoulders as he thrusts, her fingers dragging up his back, gripping his thighs to pull him deeper – and he thinks for one small second about driving her mad in the same way, about forcing her hands down and watching her writhe from the insane ache of needing. But her touch feels too good and he can't –

"_Yes,"_ she breathes when he cups her ass. They are pressed skin to skin, line to line, her breasts shivering against his chest, and the only thing he can hear is the sound of their ragged breathing, mingled. He is close, _so fucking close, _he can feel orgasm building to an insane height, his whole body shuddering from the force of it, and still she does not let him go.

"Petra …" he moans brokenly against the curve of her neck, shuddering hard, the orgasm tearing through him like fire. And even now, she guides him over, her hands curled by want, pulling him deep, merciful in the moment when he so desperately needed her to be.

It takes him a long time to come down. Every nerve in his body is live, every sensation almost too intense to bear. He feels her trembling under him, one hand lightly brushing up his back, her breathing loud in his ear.

"Fuck, Petra …" he sighs, collapsing next to her and curling around her still shivering body. He palms her stomach, brushes his fingers over her ribcage, appreciating even after he is sated. "You drive me crazy."

"Good," she says, cupping his face with one trembling hand before kissing him gently.


	4. Chapter 4

**PROMPT: Auruo is sick with the flu and being a giant pissbaby about it. Petra takes care of his whiny ass. MODERN DAY AU**

After an interminably long week filled a thousand small emergencies and a few large ones, Petra was looking forward to having a weekend entirely to herself. She'd fantasized about it while at the office, working against sixteen imminent deadlines and a boss who did not seem to understand the concept of human limits. She'd daydreamed about spending all sixty hours in her pjs, with a mug of tea the size of her head, steadily working through her Netflix queue. She fantasized about taking at least six baths, each with a different scented salt, and ordering her weight in Pad Thai.

She would get to do only one of these things.

Friday evening, she stepped into the misty evening rain, visions of her heavenly weekend dancing through her head. On a whim, she typed out a quick text to Auruo. Her phone buzzed with the reply after less than a minute.

_Petra: Where are you? Haven't heard from you all day._

_ Auruo: i'm dying. nice knowing you _

She let out a sigh.

_ Petra: You're not dying._

_ Auruo: am too_

_ Petra: You'd have more pressing things to do than dramatically whine about dying if you were actually dying._

_ Auruo: shows what you know_

_ Auruo: don't worry about it petra. just let me die in peace_

She knew she should. He probably didn't have anything more serious than a cold, and was blowing it out of proportion in typical fashion. She should ignore his crybaby texts and go home, crawl into bed and sleep for the whole weekend. She should do everything she planned, exactly as she planned, because dammit _she deserved a weekend. _But she imagined Auruo actually sick, miserable, and all alone in his awful apartment, and the fantasy of her perfect weekend faded away. It was replaced by a new plan: take care of that useless, insufferable, adorable man.

_Petra: Don't go anywhere or do anything. And put on some pants. _

_ Auruo: why_

_ Petra: I'm coming over. _

_ Auruo: dont_

_ Auruo: last thing i need is a nag nurse_

_ Petra: Then you should have thought of that before you whined to me about dying._

She smirked, stowing her phone in her purse and stoutly ignoring the barrage of panicked texts he sent her way. It took her about a half hour to get from her office to his apartment via the subway, and she took advantage of the last bit of relative peace she'd have all weekend, putting in her earbuds and listening to some Bon Iver. This was not the first time Auruo had gotten some kind of bug, cheerfully proceeding to make her life a living hell while he moped around, coughing pathetically and refusing to take care of himself.

Then again, she was the one volunteering herself for a weekend as nursemaid.

If it were anyone else, she wouldn't bother. She was protective of her free time because she didn't have enough of it. She worked hard and put every ounce of professional energy into her career as a journalist, so when the weekends came she usually spent at least half the time churning out content in service of the ever present deadline. But Auruo lived in her life on a different set of rules – ones neither of them exactly understood.

They'd been friends since childhood. They fought almost constantly, but she cared about that stupid bastard more than she knew how to say. No matter how badly he pissed her off, she couldn't seem to put him in his place, the same little boxes she'd put any other man that made her life more difficult than it needed to be. It wasn't any relationship like she'd ever heard about, and she'd probably go her whole life without understanding exactly what they were, or indeed understanding anything besides the fact that she just wanted him around.

She took the elevator up to his floor, scrolling through the texts he'd sent.

_Auruo: i'm feeling a lot better_

_ Auruo: going for a walk, see you monday_

_ Auruo: i forgot i have tickets to a concert or something_

_ Auruo: and i have a date_

_ Auruo: she's a model_

_ Auruo: and not a pushy nag like some people i know_

_ Auruo: DONT COME OVER_

_ Petra: Too late._

She sifted through her keys until she found the one to his apartment and let herself in. She was met with the expected squalor: A week old pizza box on the coffee table, ashtrays that hadn't been emptied in at least twice as long, a bottle of beer sitting on the TV, currently blasting Band of Brothers. And the man himself; perched on the windowsill and braced against the fire escape, shirtless, wearing flannel pajama bottoms and wrapped in an ancient quilt, waving his arms like a madman.

"What are you doing?" she asked, eyes narrowed.

"Just getting some fresh air, you know," he said weakly, coughing. "Also do you know how to read? I said don't come over."

She picked up a still smoldering cigarette butt, her temper spiking. "_What the hell are you doing smoking while sick?!"_

"I'm not!"

"So this cigarette just went off and smoked itself, did it? Did you by chance buy magical self-smoking cigarettes the last time you ventured outside your disgusting cave?"

He clambered awkwardly back inside, taking advantage of his superior height to glare down at her. "Give it," he said, snatching the butt out of her fingers.

"I told you to stop doing this, Auruo!"

"I told you stop being an insufferable nag, and we all know how that's worked out."

She sighed, pushing the window shut. "Right, right. I'm a nag. Come here."

He tried to evade her, but she took him gently by the arm and pressed the back of her hand to his clammy brow. "You're really hot," she said, frowning.

"Sure am," he said reflexively, shooting her a smug grin.

"No, you idiot. You probably have a fever."

"Petra, come on …"

She ignored his protests and steered him to the couch before giving him a firm push. He plopped down with a petulant scowl. "Just … stay there. I need to pick up this mess."

He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "For fuck's sake. Just leave it."

"You live like a pig, you know that? It is literally like an animal lives here instead of a grown man." She scowled, tossing empty pizza boxes and beer bottles into a trash bag, dumping out the ashtrays as she went. "It's a miracle you haven't died of some fungal infection by now."

"You're blowing it out of proportion, as usual," he said from his supine position on the couch, pulling the quilt tighter around his shoulders. "I'm a creative type. Messiness is a sign of genius, you know."

"You're a web designer," she said, rolling her eyes. "You write code. And what kind of crappy pop-psych website did you dig up that little nugget?"

"Petra, as always, your presence soothes and inspires," he sighed, trailing off into another bout of coughing.

She tied off the now bulging trashbag and set it by the door before crossing to the kitchen and digging out the thermometer from a drawer stuffed with takeout receipts going back at least two years. (She knew where almost everything was in his apartment, including the secret places he hid his cigarettes, though he kept things in places that made no sense to her whatsoever). She knelt beside the couch and touched his arm. "Open."

"Petra …"

"Come on."

After shooting her another scowl he obeyed, and she tucked the thermometer under his tongue. Effectively silenced, he was no longer the irritating man-child that drove her completely crazy on a daily basis but slightly adorable: bundled up in his quilt, tufts of sweaty hair sticking out in all directions, eyeing her with an expression she still could not reconcile. If she had to put a name on it, she'd describe it as halfway caught between petulant irritation and grudging appreciation, but that failed to catch the oddly tender quality of his eyes as he studied her face. But that couldn't be right. Auruo didn't look at anything approaching tenderness or vulnerability. He was the literal personification of a cactus.

The thermometer beeped and she withdrew it from his mouth. "100.9. Looks like you're actually sick."

And the tenderness vanished, replaced by a familiar scowl. "Why wouldn't I be? You think I inadvertently summoned you here for shits and giggles?"

"Who knows why you do the things you do," she said. "I'd start making you some soup but I assume you don't have anything in your fridge except for ketchup and beer."

"That's not all," he muttered, and she knew she'd caught him.

"What else?"

Silence. He coughed, curling into a ball on the couch; she could see the red tips of his ears peeking out from the blanket. "There's some mustard too."

"Auruo." His name came out an exasperated sigh.

She rummaged through the cupboards before finally producing a clean glass, filling it with cold water from the sink. She set it on the coffee table next to him and pushed back the sweaty hair off his brow, which was alarmingly warm. "I'm going to the store to get you some things. Drink your water and stay inside."

One arm emerged from the blanket cocoon, pointing to the table by the door. "There's some cash in my wallet," he said, shuddering as another wave of chills overtook him.

"All right," she said as she stood. He was too deeply buried in his blankets to see that she did not take what she needed; she felt odd taking his money even though technically she was buying things for him. "I'll know if you smoke again," she reminded him.

He grumbled from within his blanket. She heard the words 'fuckin' nag' as she closed the front door behind her.

It was a twenty minute walk to the nearest store, and during the trek it began to rain in earnest. Petra hiked her collar to her ears and hunched her shoulders, but she was soaked in minutes; slipping on the slick insides of her pumps, her wool skirt rubbing her legs raw even through the nylons. Exposed to the downpour, her stylish bob went stringy, strands clinging to her face and neck. She thought of her umbrella, uselessly perched next to the front door – supposedly where it would be easier to remember.

To make matters worse, the inside of the store was freezing – because apparently April in Seattle was an excellent time to break out the AC. She shivered as she threw soda crackers and chicken stock into the cart, nearly biting through her lip to keep from dropping a bag of egg noodles. She thought longingly of the bath she should have been enjoying right this minute instead of freezing to death in a dimly lit bodega. But she remembered Auruo, huddled on his couch and shivering through fever bad enough to briefly stop his complaining, and her resolve strengthened. It was only a little rain, and a little cold. Despite everything, he needed her.

She paid for the food and medicine and pulled the back of her coat over her head before stepping back out into the storm. Her phone buzzed, and she shifted the bag awkwardly on her hip so she could dig it out of her purse and see what the hell he wanted now.

_ Auruo: its raining_

She eyed the downpour from her safe vantage point under the awning of a salon.

_ Petra: I can see that._

_ Auruo: you forgot your umbrella again_

_ Petra: What about it?_

_ Auruo: stop being a cheapskate and get a cab_

_ Petra: How do you know I'm not?_

_ Auruo: because i know you. just use the cash i gave you._

_ Petra: I didn't take your money._

She could almost hear the stream of expletives from here.

_Auruo: why do you have to be so fucking difficult?!_

_ Petra: I could easily ask you the same._

_ Auruo: for fucks sake. i dont want you catching a cold and dying of pneumonia because youre too scatterbrained to remember your goddamn umbrella and too stubborn to accept help from anyone._

She froze. He was _concerned? _Naturally, it was draped in a thousand layers of his typically irascible affect, but beneath the cursing and grumping it was there; the steady, stunning heart of what he felt.

_Petra: I'll be able to get out of the rain faster if you stop texting me._

_ Auruo: no ones making you text me back_

Fuming, she stuffed her phone back into her purse.

Despite the added weight of her purchases, she was able to make it back to his apartment in less time than it had taken to get to the store. She half expected to find him hanging out of the window, desperately smoking a half-gone cigarette, but when she pushed open the door she saw he was still bundled on the couch, his ashy-blond hair poking out the top of his blanket cocoon. The glass of water lay untouched. Of course.

He looked up when she shut the door. "Look at you," he said weakly, a shudder rippling through him. "Like a f-fuckin' drowned cat."

She dropped the bag of groceries on the table and angrily shucked her coat, tossing it over the back of a chair. "It's like a tic with you, isn't it?" she snapped. "Can't be nice, god forbid. Better say something shitty before anyone gets the wrong idea."

He opened his mouth to retort when he got a good look at her, and the words seemed to die in his throat. He swallowed hard. She didn't understand his reaction until she watched his gaze travel down before jumping back up to her face, and she realized – _oh. _Her soaked white shirt clung to her chest obscenely, and to her added humiliation, she was _cold. _

_Oh my god. _

Flushing to the roots of her hair, she snatched the groceries from the table and fled to the tiny kitchen. She lit the stove, filled one pot with water and slammed another pan down and coated it with olive oil. She busied herself because it was easier than thinking or acknowledging her utter disgrace, better than acknowledging the sick, weirdly attractive man in the living room, and the way her first reaction to his stare had not been to flinch away, but to be pleased he found her worth staring at.

But busy hands were no cure all; she found herself thinking anyway. She remembered the last time she and Auruo had gone out. After months of work, she'd published a huge piece to a massively positive response, and Auruo had insisted on taking her to her favorite bar to celebrate. They'd had too much to drink – hanging over their table, five drinks deep, giggling at each other.

"You're fuckin' … you're – _fuck," _Auruo had wheezed, clutching his sides. She couldn't even speak – she'd just laughed so hard that she fell out of her seat, sprawling on the sticky bar floor. He'd lurched out of his seat after her, paroxysms of hilarity rendering him mute. But he'd still managed to lift her as easily as he might lift a child, and before he'd been able to say anything she'd clambered onto his back. And that she remembered especially – that she'd literally rode him back home.

She remembered that they'd giggled all the way back to her apartment, about stupid, normally unfunny things – a busted street sign, a banjo-playing busker serenading them as they walked past. She remembered that he dissolved into obnoxious laughter when she smashed all the elevator call buttons, effectively screwing over its next occupant. She remembered half-falling, half diving into her apartment, crashing into a pile on the couch, limbs tangled, laughing so hard that they were crying, so hard they couldn't breathe.

She remembered him on top of her, the sight of his flushed face, ashy-blond hair curling over his forehead, his smile. She remembered being inexplicably drawn to his face, to those permanent scowl lines at the side of his mouth, tracing them with her fingers. She remembered kissing him hard.

The next morning, she'd pretended not to remember anything – not the way he'd responded instantly, the moan that had caught at the back of her throat when he kissed her neck, or the way it felt to be pressed so tightly against him that they did not breathe the air, only each other. She didn't know if Auruo agreed because he really didn't remember what happened, or because he'd decided to humor her. She didn't know what was worse.

Petra lay the chicken cutlets into the pan, seasoning liberally with pepper and watching them sizzle. It wasn't warm enough. An involuntary shudder rippled through her – from the cold, or the memory?

Nothing had happened. They'd just made out like horny teenagers. But it had still felt like everything.

The chicken was nearly done when she heard Auruo clear his throat behind her. She turned, steeling herself for the next barrage on her sanity. He'd put on a shirt, his hair sticking out in messy tufts, his face wan, eyes darkly circled. He had a neatly folded shirt and pair of sweats in his hands, and he held them out to her. "Here."

She turned back to the stove and forced herself not to shiver. "You want me to do your laundry now?" she said, deliberately being obtuse.

_"No," _he said – not too sick for an incredulous glare, apparently._ "_For fuck's sake. You're soaked, I'm giving you some dry clothes before you fuckin' catch a cold or something. And before you say anything, they're clean."

Something froze the biting reply on her lips; instead, she studied him. He was tall and awkward and frequently snappish – he somehow managed to be irritated and irritating -but right now he only looked miserable; sick with the flu, shivering through his chills and aches, his face unnaturally pale. Yet he still had the space in him to care about her freezing in rain-soaked clothes.

"Thank you," she said softly.

He half-shrugged. "Just … yeah. Here."

She turned off the stove and took the clothes out of his hands, but instead of leaving to change, she set them aside and rummaged through the grocery sack, finally producing a bottle of cold and flu syrup. "Come here," she said, pouring a dose.

He blanched. "You know I hate that stuff."

"Don't be a baby. It'll help with your fever. And your aches."

"I don't need it."

Before he could pull away, she pressed the back of her hand to his clammy brow. "Is that so? Because you look worse and feel warmer."

Had he been healthy, they would have gone back and forth on the matter all night, but now he seemed to lack the energy to argue it further. He took the little cup out of her hands and threw back the medicine with little more than a grimace.

"Now the water."

"Petra…"

"I won't change until you drink it all."

He scowled. "Someone else would feel guilty about taking advantage of my very fuckin' noble concern."

"This hypothetical someone doesn't know it takes underhanded tactics to get you to do anything." She bit back a smile. "Especially anything involved in taking care of yourself."

She was true to her word. She waited until he'd settled back on the couch and downed the whole glass, watching as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying not to acknowledge that she found the sight of it odd and endearing. "Now you," he said – miserable and feverish, and so reassuringly stubborn.

Satisfied, she kicked off her pumps and padded into the tiny bathroom, closing the door tightly behind her. She tried to avoid glancing at the mirror because she suspected her reflection would only depress her, but to no avail; her hair had half dried in straggly tangles, her makeup was splotchy, mascara smudged under her eyes like a linebacker's. Worse, her eyes had a bruised, overwhelmed look to them; she hardly resembled the steely, hard-bitten journalist that she was most days. _There's a face that sunk a thousand ships, _she thought, scowling, and the scowl completed the horrible picture.

It annoyed her to realize that Auruo probably hadn't been staring because he found her attractive. He'd been staring because she really did look like a drowned cat. Fantastic.

She unbuttoned her blouse and wiggled out of her skirt, shucking her nylons with a sigh. She washed her face and combed through her gross hair, and only when she felt moderately clean and put together did she throw Auruo's shirt over her head, settling the sweats over her hips. Everything was way too big for her, of course – she was practically swimming in extra fabric – but the clothes were warm and dry, and even better, they smelled like him.

She chanced one last look at herself in the mirror and froze, staring at the words emblazoned across her chest and remembering.

They'd been in Chicago. She'd had to go for a conference, and he'd tagged along because he said he didn't have anything better to do. On their last day, they trawled Navy Pier; poking through the shops and stalls, watching a movie about the Hubble Telescope on IMAX. They rode the Ferris Wheel because she'd wanted to, and he'd come along because waiting in the jostling crowd was even more insufferable than riding 'the most boring fuckin' thing on the planet.' Later, they watched the sunset over Lake Michigan and shared a massive bowl of shrimp mac at Bubba Gump. On a whim, she bought him a green long sleeved shirt that said 'Stupid Is as Stupid Does'.

"You know I'm going to trash this fuckin' thing soon as you turn around, right?" he'd grumbled.

"Have at it," she said, smirking.

Here was the same stupid shirt nearly a year later, and it had been worn so many times that the green was faded, and the cotton was soft against her skin.

* * *

Before she resumed cooking the chicken soup, Petra crouched at the side of the couch. "Go to bed," she said softly.

He waved her off."…'m fine here," he mumbled, curling into a tight ball and shivering. In all likelihood, his bed was covered with clothes and books and other random items – he usually ended up sleeping at his desk after working a long night, and as a result the bed had become an extension of his closet. Another one of his idiosyncrasies that she simultaneously hated and adored.

"You might consider using your bed like a bed one of these days," she said without the usual rancor; against her will, the words were tender.

" … 'm a creative type," he said, half-buried in his quilt. "We don't sleep in beds. We drink coffee and smoke cigarettes instead of sleeping."

She pushed the sweaty hair off his brow. "I really wish you'd stop smoking, Auruo."

He shuddered. "And if I did, what would you nag me about then?"

"I'm sure I'd find something."

"Heh." His gaze focused on her, a half-grin curving his lips. Loopy from the medicine, probably. "This is a good look for you."

"What look? Drowned cat?"

"No," he shook his head. "You in my clothes."

She stayed with him until his eyes closed and his breathing slowed, until she was certain that he'd fallen asleep. He looked younger, somehow; less annoyed by circumstances, less wryly amused, and more the person she'd known more than half her life.

She cooked late into night, and when the soup was finished she scoured every inch of his apartment. She scrubbed the counters, the tables, wiped the dust off the bookshelves stacked haphazardly with half-desiccated paperbacks picked up from library liquidation sales. She rolled up her sleeves and scrubbed the disgusting bathtub into submission, which took the better part of an hour alone.

But she hesitated in front of his bedroom. It wasn't like she'd never seen the room before; there'd been enough nights where she'd carted his drunk ass home and dumped him in bed (and the same went for her, actually; he'd seen every inch of her own immaculate apartment). But in light of recent events, the room had become mysterious, acquiring a thrilling, dizzying purpose. This was where he brought his dates. In theory.

He mentioned them only when he was annoyed with her – the women he supposedly dated – and her insecurities conjured up visions of impossibly tall, curvy women with blood red lips, leggy brunettes with soulful eyes, who laughed at the right times, who didn't nettle or nag, who weren't pushy and intense about everything.

She frowned at herself. There was no reason to be jealous. She had no claim on him, and he had no claim on her. They were old friends who sometimes made out when drunk. End of story.

When there was nothing left to clean, she perched on the end of the couch and half-watched the History Channel. She was too aware of Auruo next to her to concentrate on the TV, too conscious of the shape of his body curled in a way that managed to be artless and graceful at the same time, his bare feet poking out from the blankets.

Saturday his fever was worse – 101.8. She plied him with tea and medicine in equal turns, and even managed to convince him to take some chicken broth left over from her soup. She felt frantic but never showed it; in the face of crisis, she could slip into a purposeful trance, doing only what needed to be done, thinking only of things that were relevant. And Auruo was relevant; the burn of fever under her hands, the battle she waged with his temperature, the dim way he watched her moving through his apartment, and once – she thought, just a trick of the light – a faint smile on his lips.

"Sorry you had to bail on your date," she said sometime in the midafternoon, trying to mask how hurt she was with an ill-conceived joke.

"What date?"

"The model."

He was too feverish to say anything smug or sarcastic; instead, he looked at her with a total absence of guile. "There was no date," he said, half-muffled by the pillow. "There aren't ever any dates. Just you."

He fell asleep not long after, and she was left to contend with this truth he'd so carelessly admitted, a truth he might never have confessed in any other circumstances.

* * *

As the weekend wore on, she became convinced she was failing in this – he wasn't improving, he was so ill and weak, nothing she did made a difference. She'd have done anything to get the scowling, smug Auruo back, even when he was calling her a drowned cat and hurling pointed barbs at her with comforting regularity. It was better than seeing him like this; sick and miserable, and being powerless to actually do anything about it.

But something changed in the early hours of Sunday morning. The feverish sheen faded from his brow, and his sleep grew less fitful. He mumbled something unintelligible and shifted to the other side of the couch, the _side where she was sitting! – _resting his head on her lap and wrapping his arms around her.

She froze, stunned. Her heart beat so loudly in her ears that she thought the sound would surely wake him up, but he didn't stir. She took a deep breath, then another. She willed herself to be calm. It was only the first time he'd been anywhere near her legs, and she hadn't showered or slept since Friday. _Oh, my god._

But as she watched him, her panic faded. She pushed back his tousled hair gently, her fingers brushing his cheek, and it was wonderful to touch him like this. She thought how it'd be if she managed to stop being a coward for two seconds in her life, if she could look him in the eye and tell him that she did remember that night they'd kissed, that she hadn't been able to forget it no matter how desperately she tried– not while awake or asleep.

Sunday morning, just as a headache pressed itself between her brows, his fever finally broke. He sat up and blearily surveyed the room. There were lines pressed into his cheek from the pillow, and his hair even messier than normal, curling chaotically off his brow. It wasn't fair that he could look so adorable on the back end of the flu.

"You're looking better," she said from her corner of the couch, nursing a cup of tea.

He blinked at her. "I didn't think you'd actually be here."

"Why?"

"Fever dreams, I guess," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I'm fucking starving."

"Think you can keep down that soup I made Friday?"

He shot her a grin. "Depends on how good it is."

She reheated the soup on the stove, purposefully ignoring his comments about using the microwave, and served him a giant bowl full to the brim. To her amusement, he consumed the entire serving, and then two more. He hadn't even tried to make a disparaging comment on how it was crap but it'd have to do for now; he devoured it with delight, which in turn delighted her. "No smart remarks?" she asked him, grinning.

"Are these actual cheese dumplings?!" he said, the words muffled as he chewed. "Where'd you learn to make this?"

She shrugged modestly. "I tinker."

"You're full of shit. Who'd you steal the recipe from?"

"Believe it or not, I'm an accomplished cook and I don't need to steal."

"Yeah, right." He upended the bowl, slurping the dregs. "Aren't you going to have any of this?"

She shrugged again. "Nah."

"You spent the whole weekend 'tinkering' with it. Why wouldn't you?"

"I'm not really hungry."

It occurred to her that his gaze had become worried. She brushed it off; likely she was reading into things again.

She figured she could safely leave him now, but going home would mean putting on her rain-stiffened work clothes and slogging back to her apartment in shoes that hurt her feet. It was warm and cozy here – she was bundled up in a blanket, still wrapped in his too-big clothes that smelled exactly like he did – and she was tired. She felt as if she'd been awake for a month. Her limbs ached.

If Auruo wanted her to leave, he gave no sign. He gently pushed her aside when she tried to do the dishes, and after a brief squabble they worked out a compromise; she washed, he dried. They spent the afternoon and evening bundled on the couch, arguing about what to watch.

"I've been looking forward to watching it all week," Auruo was saying, gesturing agitatedly with the PS3 remote. "All month. I work hard, I should be able to watch what I want in my own fuckin' apartment."

"No war documentaries," she groaned. "Why not Jazz?"

"Because we've seen Jazz like twenty times. Because I have the fuckin' thing memorized."

"You do not." She flapped her hands at him. "How about we compromise."

"Compromise just means we end up doing what you want and I shut up about what I want."

"Really."

He fumed, because he knew it wasn't true. "What kind of compromise?"

"I've had A Very Long Engagement on my queue for like six months and I was planning on watching it this weekend. It's a war movie, it's a drama; everyone wins."

"That's not a war movie!"

"It is too!"

"I've seen it before, and it's _barely _a war movie."

"It's in French," she said hopefully.

"That doesn't mean I'll like it!"

She adopted a heartbroken expression. "I had such a hard week, Auruo. I worked so hard. My boss yelled at me for nearly an hour Friday. I thought I'd get to go home, soak in a bath, and watch something nice and romantic. Instead I came here and cooked for you and cleaned your disgusting apartment, and that's all I've done the whole weekend."

"Geez, Petra."

"I literally _nursed you from the brink of death," _she added in a dramatic whisper. "Shouldn't I get to do at least one thing I wanted this weekend?"

He was quiet for a moment. "Jackson really yell at you for an hour?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "He hated my piece. Said it was amateur."

Auruo's expression darkened. "That guy's such a jackass." After a pause, he sighed. "Fine, we'll watch your fuckin' movie. Compromise, whatever."

She beamed. "You're the best."

"You bet I am," he muttered, but he couldn't keep from looking pleased at her words. "You're gonna cry, though."

"You don't know that."

"I do, because I know you."

"You think you do, anyway."

"No, Petra. I know you." He was serious. "You cried your eyes out when you dragged me to see Atonement, remember? It's the same kind of deal here. You're going to get too invested, and it'll wreck you."

She did remember. She'd bawled on his shoulder, completely gutted. If she'd been paying attention and watching critically she would have seen the twist coming, but instead she had been wrapped up in the story, in the happy ending so closely within the characters' grasp, that the sudden tragic denouement had gone straight through her heart.

But she was stubborn. "I bet it won't," she said.

He shrugged. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

It started hopefully enough. She steeled herself with every bit of emotional reserve she could manage, determined not to let him be right about this. But somewhere around the second act, she got invested. She saw herself in Mathilde; dogged and stubborn, utterly single-minded about her purpose, her nearly feral desperation to see the man she loved again. She identified with the small bargains Mathilde made with god and the universe. She knew what it was to love someone to the point of stupidity, and what it was to find an odd resolve in it.

And just as Auruo had predicted, because she got invested, the ending gutted her. Her head ached and her limbs ached, and after a weekend of close proximity to this confounding, intoxicating man she was already feeling vulnerable, so she should have known pitting her wills against any romantic drama would be a losing battle. By the time the credits rolled, she had buried her face in Auruo's shirt, sobbing her heart out.

"Come on," he said gently, rubbing her back. "That one wasn't as bad as Atonement."

"He didn't even know her," she wept. "She spent all that time looking for him, and he didn't even know her."

"He might, someday."

"'Might' isn't a whole lot to go on."

He brushed a lock of hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear, and she thought her heart might stop. "But even if he doesn't, he'll just fall in love with her again," he said. "That's the point. That it's inevitable. Not even the war and all that death could get in the way."

She looked up at him, completely at a loss for words. If she'd been in her right mind, she might have teased him about being sick still, because he'd have to be sick to say something so astute, so utterly devoid of the sarcasm and disregard his sentiments were usually draped in. But that was a lie – she knew Auruo was capable of moments of insight and feeling. They were so few and far between that she'd savored them, but now – this was different. This cut too close.

"What's wrong?" he asked her, frowning.

"I don't feel well," she said. It was true, yet such a small part of the truth that for all intents and purposes it had become a lie.

Now it was him pressing the back of his hand to her brow. "You're probably getting what I got," he muttered, mashing his lip together – what he often did when furious with himself. "Fuck."

She tried to get to her feet. "I'm sorry, I'll just go home—"

"You're not walking home with the flu," he said firmly.

"I'll take a cab," she said, strung between feeling frantic and weak. "I'll just get out of your hair."

"You're not in my hair," he said, frowning. "You're never in my hair."

She rubbed her aching head. "I just –"

"How about you sleep for a bit, first? You'll feel better."

"I'll feel better if I'm not bugging you anymore."

"Petra, come on," he said, and he took her nervous hands. "You took care of me. Let me take care of you."

It wasn't fair. She couldn't fight him, not with his hands wrapped firmly around her own. Not with her heart betraying her in this most essential way.

"All right," she said in a small voice.

So he did. He wrapped her in a clean blanket and gave her some cold and flu syrup. He logged into her Netflix account and queued up one of the dumb romantic comedies she'd been dying to watch. But instead, she watched him; fussing in the kitchen, trying to make a mug of tea in the microwave. Through heavy eyes, she watched him disappear into his room for a long while before reemerging, hair mused, his expression inexplicably nervous.

"Can you get up?" he asked her, kneeling by the couch.

"Don't worry about me," she said drowsily. She was tired – she felt like she could sleep for a few years.

"Come on," he said. "That couch sucks."

It did, but it was better than her apartment – immaculate, yet devoid of him. "Better than being alone," she mumbled.

She saw his hazel eyes widen slightly. Carefully, he took her in his arms blankets and all, so gently it was as if he thought she was made of glass, and he knew how easily he could shatter her. He carried her into his room and tucked her into his bed, which she vaguely noticed wasn't piled high with the usual garbage.

"Where is everything?" she whispered.

He indicated the pile of books in the corner by his computer. "I've been meaning to get another bookshelf anyway," he said, shrugging. "Just … go to sleep. I'll take you home tomorrow, if you want."

She didn't. She wanted to live here – or somewhere, together. She wanted to stop dancing antagonistic, awkward circles around each other and admit these things that had developed, these truths that had been at once inconvenient and essential. She wanted him to crawl in bed and fold himself around her, wanted to feel his breath on her neck, his hands on her hips, his lips on her skin. She wanted these things so desperately that she no longer knew how to give them voice.

Before she slipped into unconsciousness, she thought she felt something lightly touching her brow, the shadow of fingers brushing her face.

* * *

She woke to voices, chills, and a headache. Sunlight streamed in from the window, dappling the floor next to the bed. She noticed a glass of water and a dose of medicine waiting for her on the bedside table. She rubbed her eyes.

"Yeah, uh – Mr. Jackson. Petra's not going to be in to work for a few days," Auruo was saying. To her boss! _Shit. _

"Because she's sick. It happens."

Silence – she could feel Auruo's temper mounting from here.

"Who am I? Her fuckin' butler," he snapped. "Who do you think?"

More silence. "Well, when she wakes up, I'm sure she'll appreciate your gracious understanding. Uh-huh. Thanks." A pause. "_Fuckin' asshole." _

And she felt worse this morning, but she couldn't help but to smile. "Auruo!" she called hoarsely.

He barged into the room a half second later, his eyes wide with worry until he caught sight of her smile. "For fuck's sake," he muttered, a hand to his chest. "You scared me."

"I'm sorry," she said. She couldn't stop smiling.

He knelt at the bedside. "What're you so happy about?"

"You yelled at my boss," she said, trying to force herself to stop grinning, but it was impossible. She found it strange that she could feel so ill and tired, and yet so happy at the same time. "I'm just imaging his face."

"That fucking guy," Auruo snarled. "He's like 'well why can't she come in? Well who are you?' Like you went and got the fucking flu just to make his life difficult." He rubbed the back of his neck. "But I figured if I really gave him a piece of my mind, I'd get you fired, and you probably don't want that."

"Probably not," she said, still smiling. And after a moment, he smiled too. "Now what are _you_ so happy about?"

"Nothing," he said quickly.

"You're lying," she said. "Out with it."

"You have to take your medicine now." He passed her the little cup, trying to wrestle his adorable grin into submission.

She pushed it away. "I'm not taking anything until you tell me what you're grinning about."

"Geez, Petra," he said, letting his head drop to the mattress in dismay. "Don't make me lie."

"You could always tell the truth, you know."

"Could I?" he said quietly, looking up at her again, and she suddenly felt that this truth was an essential one, another in a long line of truths this weekend had brought to light, and that things would change under the weight of them.

But she wasn't afraid anymore. She had decided not to be because as he said, it was inevitable. They were inevitable. "You can always tell me the truth," she told him, and she laced her fingers between his.

He took it as a challenge, and as assurance. "I was thinking you look beautiful," he said simply. "And it's not fair because you're sick and snotty, and people are supposed to look like crap when they're sick. I sure did. But you don't."

She was grinning again; she felt like her heart would burst. "And?"

He shook his head, his cheeks coloring. "Fuck, Petra. I was thinking how much I like seeing you in my bed. How I might be persuaded to use the fuckin' thing more if you were in it." He fell silent, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand. "How much I like having you around all the time."

She was sick and exhausted, and her head felt like a beaten drum, but she couldn't stop smiling. "Before I kiss you, and I'm going to –" He perked, smiling so wide she thought it would stop her heart completely –"I have to say something too."

"Well, hurry it up, then."

"I was lying. That night."

He squeezed her hand. "Yeah, I know."

"You did not."

"For fuck's sake, Petra – I did. I know you. How many times do I have to say it?" He scowled at her. "I know you better than I know myself."

"Well, that's a sorry state of affairs."

"God, shut up," he said. She threw back the covers and he crawled in, and he was kissing her and she was kissing him, and it felt like the beginning.


	5. Chapter 5

**PROMPT: Single father Auruo, by obitual-devotion**

-1-

It is dusk when they come home for the first time.

He will remember this for the rest of his life. Petra is wearing a yellow dress, and there are white flowers in her hair. Her eyes are bright, and a little swollen because she cried when he said his vows to her. But her cheeks are flushed from laughing; she has laughed more today than he's ever heard, and he is drunk on the sound of it.

"It's not by a mountain," he says by way of apology. "But there's a river. Like you wanted."

She smiles, and even now it kindles something in him. "Are you going to carry me over the threshold?"

"Well I wasn't planning on it," he lies. "You're heavy."

"Yes, but I'm your wife now. You have to do what I want."

"Fuckin' nag me to death, already," he gripes.

But he sweeps her into his arms, and she throws her arms around his neck, squealing with delight. And he has a moment of surreal disbelief, standing there with his wife in his arms, in front of their home by the river, the one she'd talked about since they were children. He has to remind himself of everything that is true; that she's his wife and he's her husband, and the world belongs to them. It is safe, and it is theirs.

"You can only put me down on our bed," she tells him seriously, her arms tightening around him. "Otherwise it's bad luck."

"You're an expert on this, are you?"

"I'm an expert on everything."

He pinches her, and she squeals again. "You're an expert on driving me insane."

But she doesn't retaliate in the usual way; instead she leans close and presses her lips to his neck, slim fingers curling just below his hairline. The warmth of her breath makes him shiver. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

It is the furthest from a bad thing he can possibly imagine. He doesn't put her down to open the door; he kicks it open with so much force that he'll have to fix the fucking thing tomorrow morning, but right now he couldn't care less because she is kissing his neck, the line of his jaw, anywhere that she can reach, and he is desperate to respond in kind.

And when he reaches their bed, he does. He is caught between desire so potent that it is painful to be slow, and the impulse to savor everything, to draw it out as long as it can be borne. She shifts when he slips her dress over her head, shivers when his hands brush bare skin, sighs when he presses his mouth to her stomach. "Auruo …"

"Shh …" he breathes, grinning at the memory, years ago in a uniform closet. That old joke.

He learns her, every time. He memorizes the hitch in her breath, the moan caught at the back of her throat when he does something right, her fingers tangled in his hair. He relearns the scars from the expeditions that went south, the tight muscle of her belly and thighs, and the softness of her; soft skin, soft breasts, soft lips. He is drunk on her in every way, hopelessly lost in the miracle that she loves him, that she chose him.

He is braced on his forearms above her when she stops him, holds his face between her hands, and god – that is a miracle too. "Auruo," she says seriously.

"What?" He's breathless. He is trying not to drown in her.

Her eyes are bright. "You're mine," she says, her voice thick. "My husband."

He still can't understand this – how this makes her so happy. He is the lucky one. He is a foul-mouthed and unfortunate and frequently ill-tempered. She is brighter than the sun.

But he knows admitting this will upset her – it only ever has in the past. So he winds his fingers in her hair and swallows the deflection that is still so reflexive, an old habit from when things were uncertain and he was afraid. He kisses her deeply and tries not to show how close he is to breaking. "And you're mine," he whispers. "My wife."

* * *

He has to fix the fucking door the next morning, and he knows nothing about fixing things. He curses blue murder, banging it with a hammer and missing completely, chipping the paint. From the kitchen, Petra laughs.

She is wrapped only in a bedsheet.

"Hurry up," she calls.

"I swear to god, Petra," he snarls, hammering at that goddamned door. "Don't make this harder."

"I think I will," she says, sliding the sheet up her leg. "It's so lovely out. I could just walk around naked all day."

She is an evil, evil woman, his wife. He decides he doesn't care that the door hangs a little wrong on its hinge, at the slightest angle. He stands and pulls it shut, and she shrieks delightedly when he whips off the sheet and throws her over his shoulder.

They don't come back for it until the middle of the night, when the lack of a sheet on their bed is noticeable.

* * *

They are deliriously, impossibly happy. They live in a world populated only by each other, and by the simple trade they are allowed as veterans. They no longer steal moments in dark corridors and closets, but whenever they want, and in the open sunlight. Petra paints their shutters yellow, throwing them open whenever weather allows, and sometimes not even then. He acquaints himself with wet floors by the windows when it rains in the middle of the night. He grows accustomed to the sound of the river and the miracle of her laughter mingling with it.

He has known Petra since he was a boy, and has seen her in a thousand different ways, as a friend, a lover and a comrade, but Petra as his wife is something he won't ever find words for. She is joyous, in the way she wakes him up every morning; poised above, kissing him until he stirs. She is funny and serious, generous and frustrating, constantly intense about the things she cares about. She acquaints herself with their neighbors and chats with them whenever she gets a chance. She is a creative cook, frenetic when inspired, and a field marshal when she wants something out of him.

They bicker because it's almost another language they share at this point. And she is quick to forgive, as always.

And he is still a bastard, because even in this place he is uncomfortable with opening himself and hanging his truths out for the world to see. Even here, he can only manage it when they are in bed, or first thing in the morning, when the world is still insubstantial.

"Why's everything got to be yellow?" he grumps at her one afternoon, watching her paint.

"It's my favorite color," she says, frowning. "Don't you have one?"

He does. She is his favorite color – the colors that make her, the color of her hair, her skin, her eyes.

* * *

There are still nights where they are pulled down by nightmares, where they remember everything and everyone they lost, where she will wake sobbing or he will wake twisted in bedsheets, biting his fist so he doesn't scream.

He has one, a few nights later. The worst he's had in a long time. He dreams of Erd and Gunther, the shapes their broken bodies made on the grass, their dead, empty eyes. So much blood, more blood that he thought a person could hold. He dreams of Hange and Moblit, remembers cleaning out their rooms, how their notes and sketches were the only evidence that they'd lived at all, because there had been no bodies to bury. And Levi – Levi with the mad rictus smile, unrecognizable in death.

And he isn't awake in his bed, with his wife at his side; he's on the ground in his uniform, watching the Titans advance and knowing what they are. He is swallowing the hard block of nausea in his gut. He is standing in that corpse-filled ruin with his swords drawn, choking back the stench of blood and rot, Petra at his back. He knows that they are next, and there is nothing he can do about it.

He shudders hard – he can't stop, he can't breathe. There is a primal howl building in him, a red thing that rakes through his grey matter with razor fingers, drawing the world down to stark pinpoints. He is drowning, sucking breath but not air, not life. He can't breathe, he _can't breathe_ –

"Auruo," comes a voice across the world of terror he inhabits. Two warm hands on his face. "Shh…"

It's Petra. She's alive. _She's alive._

"Come back," she's saying. "Come back to me."

Slowly, he does. The red world fades. He focuses on her breathing, the shape of her face, her eyes watching him. How beautiful she is even in darkness, how her touch contains a multitude. He wraps himself in her whispered voice, and through it crawls out of the nightmare, inch by inch.

"Come back, come back," she's saying when he buries himself in her. He shudders, but she holds him steady. She bears their burden.

"Petra …"he whispers.

"_Shh. _I know."

He wants to tell her that he loves her, he loves her more than his own life, more than anything, but the words are heavy in him. He is a soldier that somehow managed to survive the war, stupidly, less through skill and more by luck. And in those days, he said it all the time, every fucking time he thought it, because he knew so well that it could be the last time. Now that they're free of the Titans, he's never been able to break himself of the fear that confessing is just another way of saying goodbye.

She strokes his hair, and he buries his face in her neck, breathing in the familiar scent of her skin. They are able to hold each other until tremors stop, and here they don't have to sneak away when the sun rises.

* * *

He will always remember this too:

He is trying to fix something again. He's gotten better at it after a few months of living as a husband, with a house and wife to take care of, but he's convinced he's still better at being a soldier than living like a civilian. Petra stands in the kitchen, in the center of the room, watching him. He doesn't notice that she's trembling.

"This fuckin' thing," he mutters.

"Auruo."

And he knows instantly, just by the tone of her voice, that something is wrong. This is why they are alive today - because they can read each other perfectly, because every sound and motion is in a language they alone speak.

He's at her side before he's properly aware of getting to his feet. "What's wrong?" He tastes blood, realizes he bit his tongue in his clumsy haste. Of course.

Slowly, she looks up at him. "I've missed my bleed for the third time."

He forgets to be embarrassed by this kind of talk because what she is saying is incredible. It's something that he thought wouldn't be possible because he had no business thinking about family or the future when their future was not assured. Sure, they'd talked about it every once in a while, after a particularly passionate bout of lovemaking. She'd crawl into his bed, late at night, and they'd twined around each other. She'd brushed her fingers over his chest, and he'd breathed in the smell of her hair. Five kids, they said. _Two, no six. Okay five. A whole fuckin' brood. You ready for that?_ Just an idle fantasy, something to ease the sting of losing their friends and comrades.

He's never wished he was an eloquent person more than this moment, because all he can manage is: "Uh – what?"

"I'm pregnant." She has to put it in these terms, because he is stupid. He isn't fit for anything good.

"Uh –"

And he realizes too late that his total failure to react will be misconstrued as dismay, when nothing could be further from the truth. She draws away from him, hurt blossoming over her features, and this is worse than anything he's ever said or done, worse than every shitty thing he spat in the heat of temper, every time he was impatient and snappish. "I'm sorry," she says, wrapping her arms around her stomach, shielding herself, shielding their child –

And that's what he remembers – that moment when it sinks in. "What're you sorry for?" he says, and his voice is strange to his ears, like its reaches them both from across a great distance. "You got nothing to be sorry for. I'm the sorry one. Fuckin' gaping like a – a fuckin' moron." He's shaking. He can't stop swearing, though he knows she hates it, and right now he hates it too. "I'm sorry, I'm just – _fuck."_

"Are you angry?" she asks him.

_"No,"_ he says, and it's his desperation to show her that he is _happy, so fucking happy, _that breaks him out of his stupor. He pulls her roughly into his arms, buries his face in her hair. "God, no. I'm – I can't even fuckin' _think."_

"I didn't know if you still wanted—" she whispers against his chest.

"_Yes,"_ he says, so desperate for her to understand. "I did. _I do!" _A pause, three heartbeats. "Do you?"

She sobs in relief. "_God, yes."_

* * *

_And he's kissing her and she's kissing him, and they're laughing and crying, and that's all they do for the whole night – just laugh and cry and make love, and he remembers it even today. God, how he does._

* * *

Later she's curled against his naked chest, and he's stroking her hair, winding those copper strands around his fingers, and he is so deliriously happy that he forgets to be anything but himself. "How could you think I wouldn't want this?" he murmurs.

Her shoulders lift. "Sometimes you talk big, Auruo." She says it with such affection, though it's a hard truth. "Sometimes you pretend."

"Not with you." _Not anymore._

She smiles. "All right."

And he is still so charmed by it, charmed by his wife – god, his beautiful wife. "So it's one down, four to go," he says, swallowing these worshipful sentiments because they are heavy to him, impossible. "I'm holding you to that."

"We don't even have the one, yet," she laughs.

His fingers skim over her bare stomach. "Yeah, we do."

* * *

They visit their families in Karanese and share the news. Everyone laughs and cries, except Petra's father– probably thinking that they were only children yesterday, Auruo that foulmouthed boy following his daughter around like a lost dog, and now here they are; having their own kids. His mother holds Petra tight and tells her that she'll be there for it all, for everything, and all she has to do is say the word, and Petra cries so hard that she can't speak.

Those are good days. Their neighbors congratulate them when they pass, smiling knowingly. The local midwife clasps Petra's hands and they speak in hushed voices for a long time. His brothers come by to help around their house, and Petra's father even manages to stop hating him long enough to teach him how to build a crib. Auruo is useless at it, of course; he's almost as bad at making things as he is at fixing things. But he shuts the hell up and listens, and tries to do exactly as Mr. Ral instructs, tries to be as inoffensive about it as possible.

"You enjoyed that," he grumbles after her father leaves.

She's covering her smile with one hand. "I'll never get tired of seeing you suck up to my dad."

He doesn't speak to her for the rest of the night, not until she crawls into his lap and kisses every inch of his face, laughing when he tries to stretch away, making a big show of being unwilling and pissed before finally relenting. He's a graceless, grouchy bastard, and for some reason she loves him anyway.

* * *

They plan endlessly; who will do what, who will say what, who is responsible for what aspect of their child's upbringing and education. And they speculate, every moment they are awake, who the child will take after.

"If it's lucky, it'll take after you," Auruo says as he cooks. It's the dead of night and Petra woke him up, hungry and lonely. And since she's the pregnant one, he tries to make her life as easy as possible, though not without the grouching she's come to expect from him.

"Don't say that." Petra frowns. "I want her to have your hair. And your eyes."

"Probably not going to be a her, Petra."

"You think so, huh."

He shrugs, smirking. "I have brothers. My dad had only brothers. Grandad had only brothers. Just the way it works."

"I think it's a her," Petra insists. "And I think I'm in a better position to tell than you."

"We're in equal positions."

"Oh, are we? I had no idea! What a relief."

He scowls at her. "I meant that unless you can see through your fuckin' stomach, you're in no better position to tell than I am."

She shakes her head at him, as if he is woefully uninformed. "I just have a feeling. It's going to be a her."

* * *

It is winter, and Petra's belly grows a little more every day – hardly enough to notice, but he does because he notices everything about her. She is rounder and slower, moving less, watching the world pass beyond their windows, but she glows. He catches her talking to her belly, her hands resting just below the curve, and the sight of it is so tender he can't move or speak until she inevitably notices him standing in the doorway, mooning like some love struck moron. Which he is.

She beckons him over. "Come here."

He does, slowly – a little reverently, if he's being honest with himself. "You need anything, nag?" he asks. Just to keep it balanced.

She punches him on the arm, hard. "Give me your hand."

"Ow! Fuck!"

"Give it."

"You are bossy as shit."

"And you knew that going into this whole arrangement. Come on." Her eyes dance. "Don't be a baby."

Grudgingly he relents, dropping to his knees at her side, and she gently places his hand on the curve of her belly. He is oddly nervous, his heart beating a strange rhythm against his chest, and he feels anxiety coiling in his gut. This is an introduction, one of many, and he is terrified that their child will sense that he's an unworthy bastard and stay still until he goes away. As if to confirm his fears, he can feel nothing moving under his hand, and when he looks up Petra is frowning.

"She was doing it just a second ago," she says, pressing her lips together. "Try singing."

"Petra …"

"Trust me. She likes voices. And she likes yours especially."

He's about to sing something appropriate and childish when she stops him again. "Sing my song."

"You're in rare form today, nag."

"Please?"

He can't deny her anything, not when she looks at him with those big, amber eyes, batting her eyelashes because she fucking knows it works on him. He sighs and leans close.

_"A la claire fontaine_  
_M'en allant promener_  
_J'ai trouvé l'eau si belle_  
_Que je m'y suis baigné_  
_Il y a longtemps que je t'aime_  
_Jamais je ne t'oublierai."_

At first, he thinks that it didn't work – that their child is as unimpressed with him as he is with himself, and he doesn't blame it, or her, or whatever. He doesn't like this, but he understands. He expected it. Decades of panicked extrapolation start spooling out in his mind when he feels something flutter beneath his hands, a slight shifting, and then – _wham!_

"Fuck!"

"You felt that?!"

"Yeah, I felt that- she fuckin' kicked my hand off!" He's mostly stunned, not hurt, but he draws his hands to Petra's stomach again, pressing his ear between them, and this time he can _hear _it too – that little fluttering, already so vital and strong, eager as daylight. He feels another kick against his palm.

"Oh my god," he says through the lump in his throat.

Petra brings her hands to his face, and he wraps his arms around her.

He is _not_ moved. He is _not crying._ He thinks that saying it over and over again will make it true.

* * *

It is early morning, and they are still in bed. He lies behind her, drawing her so closely he can feel her breathing, each gentle rise and fall of her shoulders. His hands wander. He has known Petra for more than half his life– how she was coltish and skinny and small when they were children; how she grew curves seemingly overnight, and then muscle when they learned how to operate 3DMG. Now, he memorizes this different curve of her belly, the shape of her hip, the new weight to her breasts. An appreciative groan fills him, and he buries his face in her hair, kissing her neck.

"Auruo …" she shifts against him, teasing. "I'm asleep."

"So am I."

"Hm. Feels like you're getting excited to me."

He grins against her neck, brushing her nipple with his thumb. "I can't help it. They're fuckin' huge."

She sighs. "Just like everything else on me."

"What are you even talking about?"

She's quiet, and he feels her shoulders grow tight. "I can barely move these days," she says. "I haven't seen my feet in ages. I used to be so fast – much faster than you, definitely. Now I can't do anything but be hideous."

"What?!"

"I can't do anything but be hideous."

"I fuckin' heard you," he says, propping himself on his elbow. "I don't even know how to tell you how wrong you are."

"I'm not wrong."

"You're – fuck, Petra. You're fucking gorgeous and you know it."

"I'm not," she says, curling on her side again. "And I don't."

"Come on, look at me."

Grudgingly, she does, her brows low over troubled eyes, and he sees that she's not fishing for compliments, and she actually does feel hideous. And this is so outside of the natural order of the world; that she should feel this way when she is so obviously lovely, so heartbreakingly beautiful in every way that it often seems to him like she draws light from dark places, like she constantly is in the sight of the sun.

"What," she says.

He doesn't know how to put any of this into words. He is inelegant and stupid, and he doesn't deserve her. "I don't tell you this enough," he mutters, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Tell me what?"

He steels himself, feeling unbearably foolish. "You – fuck, Petra. I look at you and I'm just … I don't – I just stumble along like a moron because I don't know how to say it, how to tell you that you're just – you're …"

"I'm what?"

_Just spit it out! "_Sometimes I look at you and I can't breathe. I just stand there gaping because you're so beautiful, and I'm just … well, you know what I am. I can't hear you say this stuff about yourself, because it's so wrong. It's just wrong."

He expects her to flush, or maybe to continue insisting that she isn't so beautiful that it constantly knocks him on his ass, so he's preemptively wracking his thoughts for other ways to convince her when she stares at him hard. "What's this 'you know what I am' supposed to mean?"

"Geez, Petra. That's what you hear, out of everything I just said to you?"

"Don't try to get out of it. Tell me what you meant."

He flops back, burying his face in the pillows. "Forget I said anything."

"Not even a chance. Come on." She pinches his hip.

"Why am I the one who's gotta make declarations all over the place?!"

"Because I don't actually have a problem expressing how I feel, and you do."

He's starting to get frustrated. "I thought this was obvious. I'm an old man."

"You're a year older than me."

"I look old."

She traces the lines at the sides of his mouth. "You don't."

It's a lot easier to say he's fantastic and handsome than have to admit he thinks he's the furthest thing from it all. "Fuck, Petra," he mutters, humiliated.

"Stop swearing and listen to me." She frames his face with her hands, her gaze as intense as he's ever seen it. "I'm the one who has to look at your face all day every day. And I love it – your scowl lines." She kisses them. "Your chin." Kiss. "Your lips, your eyes. That freckle on the back of your neck. Your smile. Everything. So I can't let you say this kind of negative stuff about yourself." She smiles, and it takes the heart out of him. "It's just so wrong."

"I guess you think you're fuckin' smart or something."

"I'm lucky," she says, smiling. "I love my husband."

_"Ah, geez."_

"I love that, too – that you're such a braggart, but all I have to do is tell you I love you and you turn into a pile of mush. Blushing your head off. Trying to hide your face. God, look at how adorable you are."

"I'm not adorable."

She peppers his face with kisses. "Yes, you are."

"_Ugh."_

She's relentless, holding him close, the curve of her belly pushing against him. "I love my adorable, handsome, sexy husband," she whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, her fingers curling in his hair. "Does he love me?"

He's quiet, wrestling with that familiar fear – that love and goodbye are the same. "More than he knows how to say," he admits finally. "More than he even understands."

And that's what he remembers, to his shame – as an old young man waiting to die. That he couldn't say it when he had the chance. That he relied on euphemisms and her complete understanding, her ability to read him through gestures. That he had his wife in his arms, her belly full with their child, every inch of her a lush curve, a smile behind hands, and he

couldn't

say

_it_.

* * *

He is trying to fix something again - probably that fucking door, he doesn't remember anymore – when Petra cries out and the plate she'd been drying jumps from her hands, shattering on the floor. She clutches her stomach, and he's at her side in half the time it takes to breathe.

"Is it-?!"

She's bent over, hands shaking, her lips pursed so hard they've gone white. "Go!"

He tears out of their house, running like it's one of their races, running for the midwife.

* * *

He remembers it takes him about a minute to run a mile, and then he's yelling at that fucking midwife, who is puttering in her garden rather than helping Petra right this fucking second. He remembers cursing her bloody, and remembers especially that she seemed to expect this kind of reaction from him.

"She'll be all right, dear," the midwife tells him, patting his arm. "Just calm down."

"_FUCKING HURRY IT UP, WOMAN!"_

He remembers that the midwife and her assistant walk too fucking slow, ambling down the road like it's any other Sunday afternoon and not his fucking wife in labor, her body curled in a hard fist of pain, all alone.

* * *

He remembers that the midwife sheds her uselessness and takes charge the moment she steps in their house. She and her assistant spirit Petra upstairs, speaking to her in low, soothing voices. Petra's breathing hard, shaking, her face red. And he follows uselessly now – he's the useless pile of shit hovering over their shoulders, his hands clenched into anxious shapes, wishing he could do anything to make this easier.

She catches his eye before the midwife closes the door in his face, and they are wide with fear. Perfect round circles.

* * *

He remembers waiting.

He remembers every single one of her screams.

He remembers sitting outside their room, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes hard enough that it will take them a long time to work again. Every sensory input is whittled down to this one; the sound of the world he lives in now. He can only hear each scream rip through the closed door, tear through him. He hears the low, anxious voices of the midwife and her assistant when hours pass and there is still no child. And he hears Petra's screams weakening.

He holds no gods, and most days he finds the institution of faith very stupid. He's seen too many good people die for it to make any sense. But outside that birthing room he prays desperately, makes a thousand bargains to some nameless, random deity. He'll never fucking touch her again. He'll keep his hands to himself. He'll never swear, never snap, never say another word in anger for the rest of his pitiful, miserable life. He'll fix that fucking door.

He is stupid, so fucking stupid. He has more brothers than he knew what to do with. He knew people died in childbirth, but it seemed distant and abstract to him, because his only experience was with his mother, who practically shrugged off the experience within weeks. But for Petra – sharp as a blade, her battle cry echoing in his ears – to be brought down in this way, _by him, _is a crime he will never forgive himself for.

* * *

And he remembers this:

Many hours pass. He has not slept or eaten. He waits, breathing as little as possible, oddly convinced the sound of his own breath will drown out any news. He is the personification of a held inhale, suspended by waiting, desperate for release.

And _then._

He hears the midwife encouraging, and Petra screaming, and this is not a scream of pain, but one of will. He's heard that scream before, remembers watching her rocket forward, her blades glinting in her hands, moments before she cut out the neck of a Titan. They're all shouting and he's seconds away from screaming himself when he hears it – a piercing wail. And there are sounds of triumph now, mingling with that squalling child, and he thinks that he can hear Petra too – laughing a little, laughing and crying.

* * *

They don't let him in right away. The assistant leaves the room first, and she tries to shield it from his eyes, but he sees; bunched in her arms are sheets drenched in blood, more blood than he knew a person could hold. The world contracts, and that old tremor starts up in his hands again. He can't hear Petra anymore, and he's panicking. Shuddering.

The midwife comes out next, after a long time. It takes him a minute to get to his feet. "You have a daughter," she tells him, touching his arm.

He nods, not really comprehending. "Ha …"

"And your wife is fine." But the midwife frowns. "It was a hard birth, and she'll be weak. It will take her a long time to recover."

This he understands. He will care for them both – his wife and his daughter. This is part of his bargain with god.

The midwife smiles again. "You can go seem them now, dear."

* * *

He will never forget this:

Petra in their bed, a little pink bundle in her arms. She is drawn, exhausted, and impossibly pale; when he draws close enough he can see the wandering path of a vein in her temple. He is accustomed to Petra tough as steel, resilient as Titan flesh, screaming her challenges; to see her this weak is terrifying.

But she smiles when she sees him in the door way. "Auruo."

He makes a garbled sound, a composite of all the sentiments crashing through his mind, and climbs awkwardly in bed next to her, pressing himself as closely next to her as he can.

She bites her lip. "You look terrible."

It's that she can still tease him, that after this crucible she is still the same, and she doesn't hate him for putting her through it – that gets through to him. He draws a shuddering breath. "Never again," he grinds out. "Never again."

"What about the brood?"

"I don't care, I don't – I don't fuckin' care."

He's shaking, and he can see recognition in her eyes – that he's panicking, that he's losing himself to the red world, where there is only blood and death and loss – and he hates that she has to comfort him when she's the one who just fucking gave birth, but it can't be helped at this point – he is losing his grip on himself.

"Hey," she says. "Come back. Come back to us."

_Us. _Because they are no longer two, but three. "Y-yeah." He's breathing. He's calm. He can do this.

She smiles, holding the pink bundle out to him. "Here."

And he remembers this too: Petra gently passing their daughter into his arms, holding that little baby and looking at her little face, touching her little hand, god – everything about her so little and red and _perfect, _and realizing that the rest of his life will be tightly bound up in these two people, his wife and daughter, realizing that he belonged utterly to them, and would never belong to anyone else.

* * *

They name her Alaine, because Petra saw the name in his family's records and fell in love with it, and those first months are perfect. They learn this tiny person, every inch of her – the shock of bright auburn hair that quickly replaces the baby down she was born with, in Petra's color but Auruo's texture. They memorize her little garbled sounds, the things that make her laugh, ward against the things that make her cry. They hardly ever put her in that awful crib he made months ago.

Auruo sings all the time, and in French, because it makes Alaine shriek with glee before trying her best to approximate the words and tune herself. And they will walk around like that, the baby on his hip, bouncing her in time to the dumb songs he's constantly singing, and that's how Petra finds them after her short walks around their house. And she smiles so wide that it's almost like she'd never known sadness.

It takes many months for Petra to regain her strength, and even then it does not fully return. She is often tired. There are dark circles under her eyes, and she when they walk into town she is often so tired that they have to hire a cart back home. But her spirit is untouched. She loves their daughter, loves that little girl more than there are even words for.

And they bicker, of course. Mostly they squabble over who gets to hold Alaine. 'It's my turn,' Petra would scowl, hands on hips. 'You held her all fuckin' day yesterday,' Auruo would retort. And back and forth.

But it's good between them. They catch what sleep they can, sprawled out on their bed, curled around each other. They kiss all the time. He feels the words growing looser in him, easier to move. He can't remember the last time he had a nightmare. There are none in this place.

He looks back on those months and rages to himself, his hands fisted in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. He should have known. He should have seen it coming.

* * *

It's late November, and Petra is at town picking up some bread and cheese when it starts to rain. He doesn't notice at first – he's sitting in the middle of the living room with Alaine, trying to get her to talk. It's a desperate competition between he and Petra at this point – he's bet a whole month of diaper changing that she'll say 'Dada' first, and he'll be damned if he loses this bet.

"Come on, you. Say it."

Alaine babbles delightedly, waving her fist overhead.

"Say 'Dada."

"Mah!" Alaine shouts gleefully.

"No, little goose. DA."

"Mm-mmm-mm!"

It figures that 'mah' is an easier sound for babies to make than 'dah'. "I'm DA," he says, pointing at himself. "Dada."

He hears Petra open the door just as Alaine shrieks, "Mama!"

"Just in time for my utter defeat," he says, craning over his shoulder to get a look at Petra's gloating face. But she is not gloating – her skin is grey, and she is shivering, soaking wet. "Petra?!"

She crumples to the floor.

* * *

He does not think, only acts. He sweeps her into his arms and brings her to bed, stripping her soaking clothes and dressing her in the warmest things she owns. She is so light, now; how did he not notice? Her skin looks like paper stretched tight over her bones. He dries her hair, brews her tea, tries to get some warmth in her, but she is so cold.

He's about to send for the doctor when she grabs his hand. "It's just a cold," she tells him, shivering. "I'll feel better in a few days."

"I'd rather not risk it," he says, frowning. But she won't hear anything else.

"Don't bother that poor man for something like this."

So instead he sends a message to his mother and in hours she arrives, taking a sniffling Alaine away until they are sure that there is no more sickness in their house. He will stay, of course. He will stay until Petra is well. And in those early days of Petra's illness, he forces himself to believe that she'll get well. He'd made a bargain, after all. He'd been living it, exactly as he promised.

"Come on, nag," he jokes, tipping tea down her throat. "Things are a mess around here."

Petra shivers under every blanket they own. "I'm sorry."

"Shh." That old joke.

Even now, he's angry about this – just a cold, she'd said, it'll go away in a few days. He's angry that he listened to her, when in the back of his mind he knew something worse was wrong. When he finally does send for the doctor, she is lapsing in and out of consciousness. Her fever burns under his hands. She can barely breathe.

He is desperate.

* * *

The doctor's advice is useless, which he should have expected. 'It must run its course,' he says before shuffling away. Auruo resists the urge to throw something at the back of his head. He hasn't slept in five days.

He goes back upstairs, climbs into bed with Petra, and wraps his arms around her. She moans in her fevered sleep. He holds her tighter, rubbing her back, trying to get her to breathe. "Come on," he says. "Come back."

* * *

He will never forget this. He wishes to god that he could.

* * *

It is the middle of the night. He's pulled up a chair next to her bed, arms crossed, listening to the sound of her labored wheezing. He watches her thin chest struggle to accommodate breath. There is a fragment of memory that comes back to him – a nightmare, trying to breathe, and her voice pulling him out of the panic. He tries the same with her now – he thinks that if she can hear his voice, she'll sit up and talk to him again. Maybe tell him to shut up. He'd like that.

"Remember that time we walked in on Erd and Gunther? Gunther's at his desk, right, and we can't see what's going on in his lap, so you're just talking to him like normal, like 'so I refilled the gas tanks like Erd wanted but I can't find him, so maybe you can tell him when you see him next,' and you just would _not leave. _And meanwhile Gunther's getting redder and redder, and I'm thinking to myself 'fuck, is he-?' and that's when we hear Erd bust out laughing under the desk, and Gunther goes so red that the dumb bastard actually gives himself a nosebleed. I never laughed so hard in my life – their fuckin' faces, though! Like caught red-handed. Remember?"

No response. Her chest hitches on a hard breath before slackening.

He tries again. "How about that time Moblit was trying to get us to sit still for a portrait? For the records or whatever. The four of us, Special Operations Squad. Except Erd was being a shithead and just would not shut up, and I was trying to be mad at him, but I've never heard him say such funny shit before. Like all leaned over, trying to get Gunther to crack a smile. And you're getting madder and madder 'cause we won't shut up, and Moblit's just so done with us all.

"But do you remember the portrait he finished? We were all supposed to be sitting straight and serious, but instead he's sketched us all laughing and grinning like dopes. Erd's all squinty-eyed, that funny grin he used to do. Gunther looks kind of grudging about it, like we had to twist his arm to laugh at us. But I think about how you looked in that portrait all the time – and I can't even explain it right. Like you smiled with your whole body. Completely lit up. You were pulling on my arm or something, and I'm kind of half falling on you. And you looked just thrilled about it."

He sighs. "I think about those dumb bastards all the time. I don't mention them as much as I should, because I know it just makes you sad. But I do." He reaches out and holds her hand, stroking the back of her palm with his thumb. "I think they'd have gotten really drunk when we got married. Erd would have cried all over you, that big sap. And they'd – they'd just go over the moon about Alaine. They'd spoil her rotten. Don't you think?"

Nothing. "Yeah, they would. Gunther'd make her a thousand of those little wood carvings he used to do, like little birds and animals. God, she'd have loved that. I'd try, but I'm shit at making things. You know that."

He's quiet for a long time, thinking about this other life – the four of them, and Alaine at the center. "Feels like I haven't held her in months, you know? I know you feel the same way. I mean … fuck, Petra. Did you even hear? She just started sayin' Mama over and over again, like she was trying to get you to come back. And I know it means I have to change diapers for the next month, but I don't care. She was calling for you."

He lifts Petra's hand to his lips. "Come on. Come back."

* * *

It is not a gentle, noble end.

It is messy.

* * *

She does not wake up. She goes rigid, angry splotches of red on her skin. Each breath is a rattling gasp, tearing through her like a blade through flesh. And he's yelling at her, screaming, fucking screaming his head off, _don't you even think about it, no no no no, open your eyes Petra, open your fucking eyes, _but she is in another place, a red place, and she can't hear him. She can't hear anything.

* * *

He can't shut up. He's trying, fucking trying to get her to push herself upright and punch his arm for making so much noise, for swearing so much - she fucking hates it when he swears, especially now that they have a baby together and that little baby picks up everything they say. Like Mama, how he'd say that to her too – trying to get her to say it too. _Come back –_

She is growing cold. She does not breathe, or blink, or grin. Her eyes are half open, and they look through him. Empty, dark windows. _Fuckin' sit up, wake up, you can't do this to me, you can't leave like this, not after everything we lived through, come back –_

He pounds on her chest, trying to restart her heart, making so much noise that she has to hear him, wherever she is – she'll sit up any minute, she'll tell him to stop being so loud the baby is sleeping I'm sleeping you should be sleeping _COME BACK** –**_

_-come back to me._

* * *

When they find him in the morning, he is raw and half-mad. He clings to her cold body, and it takes three people to pull him off.

* * *

-2-

Auruo does not remember the following year. These things happen to a person he no longer recognizes, not a full man but a shell. A half person.

He sells their cottage. He keeps Petra's things, but sells everything else. He burns the bed she died in.

He buries Petra on a hill, and marks her grave with a stone. His family stands behind him; his parents, his brothers, Mr. Ral. He holds their daughter in his arms while the priest intones the final blessings, and thinks to himself that god has utterly failed him, has betrayed him and cheated him, and even more unforgivably, cheated Petra. She was supposed to live a whole, long life. She'd earned it. She _deserved it._

He'll go to his own grave with this cold hatred in his heart.

"Mama," Alaine whimpers when the priest flicks the gravestone with oil. "Mama?"

He holds her tighter.

* * *

When he was young, he thought about leaving Karanese every day of his life. He is not that much older, but there is a century of bitterness and loss in him, and he thinks back to that stupid boy he'd been, that little fool trundling in the shadow of the best person ever to live, and swallows his anger. He should have known he'd end up back here. Living in the same slum, working at the same forge.

The mill no longer makes swords for the military; they make parts – for guns, for buildings, for more steel mills. And the work is as familiar to him as hunger and pain.

While he works, Alaine stays with his mother and father, and he thinks about her during his shifts – wonders what he misses while hammering slabs of molten steel. He thinks about her little laugh, and the toy his father had brought home for her the previous day – a little bird, its wings outstretched in a facsimile of flight. He remembers she hurled it across the room, and oh – for a second, it did fly. For a second.

Petra would have laughed so hard at the sight.

He hated the mill when he was a teenager, but now he appreciates the outlet – the chance to channel his rage into something constructive. Making things. He was never any good at it. Maybe he needed to lose something first.

He knows this, now; if it had not been for Alaine, he would have died. He would have starved to death in darkness, or done something foolish and reckless until it killed him. He would have thrown himself into the forge and burned to ash.

* * *

He dreams of her, every night.

The way she had been: strong, stubborn, beautiful and tough as steel. He sees her soaring through the sky, weaving through trees, graceful and fast. He sees the bright flash of her smile, her laughter echoing through the darkness, and it is like sunlight to him, the first break of it after a long night.

He dreams of the fights they had, endless, stupid fights. Screaming in each other's faces about meaningless nonsense, watching that little crease form between her brows. Remembers how he'd always been halfway caught between wanting to keep screaming and kiss her senseless. He dreams of the latter more often.

He dreams of her in bed, curling into him, wiggling to tease him awake, dreams of her lips, her tongue, dreams of her kissing him endlessly, trailing down his jaw to his neck, always on that spot between she found, that livewire spot that he can't resist even when half-dead from sleep. He dreams of her laughing when he shudders, pushing him back, straddling him.

He slowly wakes, occupying that tenuous space between daylight and dreaming, and for a moment he forgets. He sees a bundle of sheets in the space next to him, and for a second he convinces himself that it's Petra, that sweep of fabric is her bright auburn hair spilling across the pillow, that line is the plane of her bare shoulder. And he smiles, reaches for her –

- and his hands pass through air.

This happens every night for a year. And every night, he remembers that she is dead, that he watched her die, that the last thing she ever said to him was _I'm sorry, _and the last thing he wants right now is her apologies.

* * *

It is not easy. Nothing is.

He doesn't know how much Alaine understands, but she does remember her mother. She misses her. She will giggle to herself over something or another, and then look up at him, the giggle fading from her lips. She will look around, as if she has forgotten something.

"Mama?" she asks him.

And every time she says the word, it's like being run through.

He swallows hard. "Mama's not here, goose."

"Mama?"

He can't say anything. He clenches his fists, hard enough to gouge holes in his palm. He is shaking. He can't breathe. "She's gone away for a little while."

He can never bring herself to tell their daughter that it's the permanent sort of going away, that those few shifting memories are all she'll ever have. That none of it is right, or fair. Alaine wouldn't understand it, anyway. He can barely understand it himself.

* * *

He remembers this: the first time he smiled since Petra died.

They are at his parents' house, and it is Sunday. Alaine is standing, leaning into his mother's hands, her little legs kicking, practicing. She's ready. She's going to do it.

He's on the other side of the room, hands outstretched to her. "Come on, goose. Come here."

"Dada!"

"Yep, that's me. Come here, silly."

She kicks again, testing herself. Testing that she can bear the weight.

"You got it! Come on."

_Come back._

His mother releases her arms, and Alaine stands there – unsure. Figuring out if she can do this, if she wants to. Screwing up her face, she takes a little, wobbly step. Slowly a smile tugs at her mouth, and then she's taking another step, and another. She giggles, and that's when he sees it, that fierce look of freedom on their daughter's face – he sees a flash of Petra, running through a green field.

It is so, so bittersweet.

He swallows. "You got it! Look at you!"

And she does – she's toddling completely on her own power, and loving every minute of it. She's about to fall when he catches her, swinging her up and spinning her around, and she screeches with glee, little legs kicking. He peppers her face with kisses until she shrieks delightedly, so loudly that he's probably a little deaf in that ear now. And he doesn't care.

Later, when Alaine is asleep and he's nursing a cup of watered down coffee, he lets himself think that Petra should have been here for this, that she would have loved it and probably cried, and watching her cry would have probably made him cry, and it would have been a disgusting, glorious mess. God, how it would have been.

* * *

"Come on, little goose. Open up."

"No!"

Alaine is two, and very fond of the word. He holds a spoon of carrot mush to her mouth, and she presses her lips together in a firm, angry line. "Carrots are good, see?" He takes a bite, swallows. Forces himself not to throw up. "Mmm!"

"Blech!"

It's like she inherited both his and Petra's stubbornness, and instead of mingling it multiplied. "Come on, goose. No stories until you eat your carrots."

"No!"

"Really? You're okay with no more stories ever?"

She regards him, her expression far too shrewd for a toddler. "No."

"Then come on. Eat your carrots."

She allows a tiny, tentative bite, before promptly spewing it out. Chunks of carrot fleck his cheek, drip down his chin. He's tired and sore from a long shift, and his patience is dwindling. "You are a little punk, you know that?"

_Do not call our daughter a punk._

_If you had a problem with it, you shouldn't have fucking died on us._

He abruptly feels guilty for snapping at her. Then he feels stupid, because 'her' is a fragment that lives in his mind, made of the things he knows she'd say because he knew her so well, knew her better than he knew himself. How many times had he said that?

"Come on, Alaine," he sighs, exhausted. "Please eat your carrots."

"NO!"

* * *

But she grows; god, how she does. And every day, she becomes more and more like Petra.

He'd expected this. Fuck, he'd hoped for it – he's a miserable, ugly bastard and he knew even then that it'd be best if their child has as little of him in her as possible. And his hoping prayer has been answered by the god he despises – Alaine is nearly Petra in miniature.

She has the same bright auburn hair, but it's wavy like his. It curled in adorable ringlets when she was a baby, and now reaches halfway down her shoulders, kinking out a bit in the back. She has those same amber eyes, and they're often wide with excitement or laughter. She's stubborn and determined, and when she gets her mind set on something, nothing can get in her way. She's moody like him, which he knows Petra would have found hilarious – two moody punks, stomping around their home. But she's quick to forgive. And she nurses a tender spot for underdogs, just like Petra.

God, that one hurts to notice. He's cleaning their kitchen when she rushes in, a broken little thing in her hands. "Look, Daddy, look!" she cries, shoving the crumpled form under his nose. It's a kitten, clearly the runt of the litter, half-starved and mostly dead. An odd pang fills him. He remembers another copper-haired girl, rushing to another underdog's rescue.

"We have to help him!" Alaine says, her little face hard and resolute.

So they do. Alaine feeds the little thing some milk. Auruo scrubs the fleas off its hide and binds the wounds, and when he's done the little kitten is almost halfway presentable. He expects that it'll die without its mother, but to his surprise and relief, it flourishes under Alaine's care. She pets his little orange head and tells him stories, and after a few days it looks like he'll actually pull through.

"I'm going to call him Tiger," she tells him, petting the kitten's head.

"He doesn't look anything like a tiger."

"Yeah huh!" Alaine scowls up at him. "Look at his little stripes."

He doesn't look much like any tiger Auruo's ever seen, but then again he only just learned what a tiger was a few years ago. "Whatever you say, little goose."

He expects the little thing will disappear, but to his surprise, Tiger remains, and a fiercer mouser there never was.

* * *

"What's your favorite color, Daddy?" she asks him one day, pulling on his sleeve.

He remembers shutters and sunlight, and the color of Petra's dress the day they said their vows. "Yellow," he answers, though he thinks the word, and the world of memory it revives, will break him.

She beams. "That's my favorite too."

* * *

Alaine is six going on seven when she becomes obsessed with Petra, with the mother she barely remembers, and it's an obsession that sustains her for the rest of her life. He expected this to happen, and doesn't blame her at all for it.

But he should have prepared better for what the endless barrage of questions would do to him.

When Petra died, he pushed it away. Alaine would start asking questions in a few years, and a few years would be enough time, he thought. How could he have known that a few years would feel like a few minutes, and that for the rest of his life he'd feel that loss as acutely as if he'd just sustained it.

Auruo tucks Alaine into bed and sings her favorite song until her eyes droop, until she goes slack and peaceful. He thinks that's the end of it too, until a half hour later she climbs into bed with him, hugging him tight around the middle.

"Hey, little goose," he says, yawning. "What's the matter?"

"I miss Mama," she sniffles.

And there it is – every time, that blade through the heart. He swallows hard. "Me too."

"Where is she?"

"She had to go away. We talked about this, remember?"

But Alaine doesn't really understand yet; she thinks it's impermanent, and that someday soon her Mama is going to come waltzing through that door with a smile like sunlight on her face, and it'll be like she never left. "Why did she have to go?"

He asks himself that question every fucking day, and he's no closer to reaching an answer. _God damn it, Petra. _"She got really sick," he says. He's going to keep it together. He has to, for Alaine.

"Why?"

"I don't know, honey." He swallows hard, but it doesn't work; his voice is thick. "Sometimes things happen and there's just no reason for them."

"Is she gonna come back?"

He has no more soft answers for her. He wishes to god that he did. "No, honey."

Alaine is crying now, her little face pressed hard into his side. "But why? Doesn't she love us?"

He bites his lip hard enough to taste blood. "She loved you more than anything. If she'd had a say in it, she wouldn't have ever left you."

He knows that's true. He remembers her sitting by the window, talking to the bump that would one day be their daughter, her hands clasped under the curve of her belly. He remembers her screaming and fighting to bring their little girl into the world, though it nearly killed her. He remembers her last words; _I'm sorry._

Alaine cries and cries, and he swallows the ragged howl that threatens to rip out of him. "It's not fair."

It's a futile shout in the void at this point, but he doesn't care; he thinks it anyway. He thinks it with every ounce of hurt and anger and grief, every dark feeling that threatens bright memories of his wife, his sunlight wife. _Come back. Come back. Please come back. Don't make me tell our little girl that this is how it is._

_I'm sorry._

"I'm sorry," he chokes. "Sometimes life isn't fair."

* * *

And it's a mess; a huge fucking mess. He's inconsolable, she's worse. He tries to comfort her but it's really fucking hard when he can't even breathe through the sobs, and can't even see through the tears. And through it all he thinks that he never saw his own dad cry like this, so he's probably scarring his daughter for life and failing this whole fatherhood thing in one fell swoop. Not like it's ever been easy, but he'd been managing. Treading water, kind of. Trying to do his best by her. And now it all comes crashing down around his ears, and he's left trying to sort out the pieces. Alone.

_God damn you, Petra._

They calm down after a long while. Alaine because she's tired, Auruo because he's raw with feeling. He rubs her back, trying to get her to go to sleep. But it's made her pensive – six years old, going on thirty. "Can we go see her together now?"

"Sure, honey."

She's quiet, thinking. "I'm going to bring her that picture I drew of you. And I'm going to tell her everything that's happening."

"I know she'd like that."

Not long after, she drifts off to sleep. But he can't bring himself to carry her back to her bed, so he lies on his back and watches shadows play off the ceiling, stroking her bright hair, tucking it behind her ears.

_I'm sorry._

_Yeah, you're sorry. You're fuckin' sorry. We're all sorry._

* * *

The next day, he's prepared. He's going to keep it together, god fucking damn it, or he'll die trying. He's nearly bitten the edge off his tongue in the pursuit of keeping a straight face, but he's ready to bite the whole thing off if it means staying strong for his daughter.

He opens their front door. "You ready, little goose?"

"Daddy," she says sternly. "I'm not a little goose anymore."

He isn't sure why this makes him so sad. "You'll always be my little goose," he says, trying to grin.

She scowls up at him, grumbling under her breath.

_Definitely your daughter. I never made that face._

_You think, huh?_

_I know._

_Who actually had to look at your face? That's right; me._

No response from the ghost who lives in his head. Swallowing, he takes Alaine's hand and they set out down the street.

It takes them the whole morning to reach Petra's grave. And it's a nice walk, if he's being honest. Sunny, warm. The kind of day he spent with her when they were kids, screwing around, falling in love.

_I fell. You face-planted._

_You're in rare fuckin' form today, nag._

But it's true; he tripped and fell on his face in love with her, the moment he saw her standing there, shouting down the bullies beating the shit out of him, a justice-borne warrior already. He was twelve, but he loved her that fucking second, and he still does, and it hurts. It probably always hurt, in some way, and he knows it always will.

"Daddy, look at the birds."

Alaine points overhead. A pair of them wheel skyward, twittering as they go, drunk on flight and freedom. He thinks of him and Petra, soaring through the trees. Blades in their hands. Not a whole lot of good memories from the war, but that's one of them – weaving in and out of her path, knowing exactly where she would go and positioning himself exactly opposite. They were a mirror image. They knew each other better than they knew themselves.

_You were such a show-off. _He can almost see her rolling her eyes.

_Somebody had to keep your dumb ass alive._

_Yeah – ME._

He smirks. It feels good to bicker with her again.

* * *

He and Alaine pass the cottage that would have been theirs if she had lived, if he'd been strong enough to stay.

The door still hangs a little wrong on its hinge. The shutters are still painted yellow. He sees a young couple outside – the man is chopping wood, and the woman sits in the grass with her arms outstretched toward a little toddling boy. They laugh, all three of them, and their laughter mingles with the song of the river.

When the woman catches sight of him, she waves and smiles. He cannot smile, but he returns the wave

* * *

Because he's a miserable bastard and a coward, he's walking slower now. The grave is in sight, and he can't do it. He's struggling, his throat working, biting a new hole in his tongue. She'd have laughed, probably, or maybe fussed over it. Nag.

_Don't be a baby._

_You're the fuckin' baby._

It is sunny, bright. The leaves rustle in the wind, whispering _shh. _That old joke.

"This is where Mama is," Alaine says, matter-of-factly. God, that kills him. He nods.

She looks up at him, those amber eyes clouded with worry. "Do you think she'll be able to hear me?"

"I know she will, little goose." He gently pushes her toward the grave. "Go on."

Alaine squares her shoulders, marching forward until she's right at the grave. She's got her pictures rolled up under her arms, her bright auburn hair kinking in the back just like his does, and his heart aches at the sight of it. And he thinks how much Petra would have loved to see her, how she would have brushed her hair and told her stories and tickled her feet. How she would have hugged her close and kissed her all over, face scrunched, how she would have only let go when Alaine squirmed and grumbled and made a scene about it, just like he used to do.

_I really would have._

_Don't make this harder on me, nag._

"Daddy says you can hear me," Alaine begins. "I hope you can, because I got a lot to say, and I want you to hear all of it, okay?" Very businesslike, but her lip trembles, and that fucking kills him. He wants to wrap her up in his arms and take her away, but he stops himself. She needs this. They both do.

"I drew a picture of my cat, Tiger. Daddy says he doesn't look like a tiger, but he does. And he kills the mice that try to eat our food. We saved him when he was just a baby, so now he helps us. He probably doesn't have to stick around but he does, and it's nice. He's a good cat." She unfurls one picture, showing the headstone, and it's a pretty fair likeness of their stupid, grumpy mouser that looks nothing like a tiger.

_I think it does._

_You would._

"I drew a picture of Daddy, too," says Alaine, unfurling the next picture. "Actually I drew a couple. He just woke up in this one, and he's grumpy."

He laughs, and Alaine glares at him. "I'm sorry, goose. I'm sorry. It's a good picture."

And it is. Alaine has captured his messy, sleep mused hair, and his very irritated expression, narrowed eyes and scowl lines and all.

_How many times have I seen that face?_

_God, shut up._

"I drew another one too. This time he's smiling. I thought you might like that one better."

_I love them both._

_God damn it, nag._

"It doesn't happen a lot. I think Daddy tries not to be sad all the time, but I think it's because he misses you. I miss you too." Alaine trails off, and he's swallowing hard, trying not to make a sound, because of course Petra's child could see right through him, no matter how hard he tried to put a good face to the world.

"But I said something about how I wish that Grandma's cake could grow on trees, and I'd plant one in the square so everyone could have some tree cake. And he just laughed and laughed, and I got kind of mad because I thought he was making fun of me. But he wasn't. He said it was a good idea, and things would be better if there were cake trees."

She got more than a little mad – she wouldn't speak to him until he'd sufficiently convinced her that he wasn't laughing at her, that he'd _never _laugh at her ever. He considered many things: that their daughter is moody and temperamental like him, and his own ego is easily wounded, and since it seems like Alaine inherited more of his character that he would have liked, he'd vowed to be more careful from that point on.

"I think you'd be proud of him," Alaine says, digging a little hole over the grave for her drawings. "He's a good Daddy. Even though he still calls me little goose when I tell him not to."

_I knew you would be._

_You didn't know anything._

_I did. I knew it. I know you, better than I know myself._

"Everyone says I was too young to remember you when you died, but I do – I remember one thing, and it's of you smiling. So I drew a picture of it." She unfurls the last picture, one he hadn't seen, and it's – he can't even form a thought or make a sound. It's Petra. His sunlight wife. He's biting his tongue so hard he might just bite the whole fucking thing off.

"Maybe I dreamed it instead of remembered it. But Daddy says that you look like me, except your hair was straighter. So that's what I drew."

Gently, she rolls up the pictures and buries them. "I hope you like them. I spent a lot of time drawing them. They're not very good yet, but I'll practice a lot and get better. And then I'll bring you more drawings, okay?"

She leans forward and kisses the headstone, gives it a little pat. "I miss you all the time. And I wish you were still here."

With a little sniff, she gets to her feet, brushes the dirt off her knees. "That's all for now. Bye, Mama. I love you."

God, she fucking kills him. Everything fucking kills him. He is in a state of slow death, where everything he thinks and does and everything their daughter says and does chips another piece out of him. But he's holding it together, he's fucking holding it together, he's going to do this and say his piece, and he's not going to embarrass himself while doing it.

Alaine touches his hand. "Was that good?"

"Yeah, honey. It was good." He swallows. "Can you give me a minute with your mom?"

"Okay, Daddy." She looks at him sternly. "No swearing."

He nearly loses it then. He waits until Alaine turns around and skips down the hill, rolling and losing herself in the game. He stands so he can keep an eye on her while he talks, because he's not a total failure at this fatherhood thing, and that's a relief.

He clears his throat. "So. Uh."

Silence, save for the breeze rippling through the leaves. _Shh._

He avoided her grave, and avoided her ghost, and now he can do neither. He kneels in front of the stone, brushing the words with his fingers, and he says something he should have said every fucking day of their lives, something he swallowed because he was stupid and scared.

"I love you, nag," he tells his wife, the dust beneath his feet, the ghost haunting him. "I didn't tell you enough. But I do. Still do."

He grins through his tears. "Probably always will. Unless, you know. Someone new comes along, catches my eye."

_Not even funny._

"Yeah it is. It's fuckin' funny because it'll never fuckin' happen. And you know it."

They sit in silence for a long time, he and his wife. He thinks about those two soldiers wheeling higher and higher, their green cloaks whipping in the wind. Thinks about those two soldiers curled together, breathing together, living one life. They moved like one. And he thinks that he's done all right, limping along with only half himself there. He's done all right.

* * *

He still has flashbacks, though it's been years since a Titan threatened anyone. He wakes twisted in his sheets, biting his fist so hard that he draws blood, swallowing the scream building in him with such violence that it takes every ounce of effort he has, because if he screams he will wake Alaine, and she will be scared.

He imagines Petra, her face in the moonlight, cool hands touching his face. _Come back, _she whispers. _Come back to me._

_I can't, _he tells that pale ghost in the shape of his wife. _Not yet._


	6. Chapter 6

**PROMPT: Monty asked for some quick smut, and I aim to please!**

Petra slips into the closet, pulling the door quickly shut behind her. "We have ten minutes," she whispers.

It is too dark to see his face, but she knows him well enough to know he's probably grinning his trademark smug grin. "Dunno if that'll be enough."

"That's a pretty optimistic assessment of your abilities."

His reply is to wrap his arms around her waist and kiss her hard.

Ten minutes, she thinks, shivering as he trails kisses along the line of her jaw, his lips hot on her neck. She gasps when she feels his teeth graze the sensitive skin there, and in the darkness she thinks he might be smiling as her body comes alive against his — thinks he might have laughed, barely more than a whisper against the crook of her neck.

"Hurry up," she moans, writhing against him. This is risky and they could be caught, but she can not stand to wait until tonight — she needs him now.

"Shh."

His desperate hands pulling at her belts, sliding her pants down her hips, careful not to rip anything because they are still on duty and a misplaced button or buckle will be easily noticed. She'll appreciate this later, but right now all she knows was that he is taking too long, that his hands are not on her bare skin right now, that he is not inside her right this moment, and the absence of him will drive her mad.

Nine minutes, she thinks when his hands cover her breasts.

She is less careful — she unbuckles his belt and pulls him free, and he makes a strangled sound when her hand curls around his erection, stroking once. "Sh-shit," he gasps.

"Shh …" she whispers. "Not so loud."

"Fuck, Petra …"

He is not so smug now; he is putty in her hands, and god — this is how she likes it.

Eight minutes.

His breathing goes ragged as she strokes, teases; she feels his pulse in her palm, thrilling an unsteady, wanting heartbeat. He will lose control in one minute, she knows. He will abandon the game and take her hard against the wall. He will not be able to withstand her, just as she won't be able to withstand him.

His hot breath on her neck. Muscles tight, engaged. His hands sliding up the small stretches of bare skin, the only ones they are bold enough to expose in this unsafe place. When she kisses him hard, he moans, and she thinks she can taste the sound of it on her lips.

Seven.

He pins her, lifts her. She wraps her legs around his waist, braced against the wall, shivering when hard fingers bite in the muscle of her ass. "Ow," she squeaks.

"S-sorry." She's got one hand on his cheek, so she feels it when he grimaces. He's waiting now, trembling hard enough that they both shake. She leans close, until her lips are a mere breath away from his ear.

"I didn't say stop." Six minutes, she thinks frantically. "Hurry."

And he does — for all his swaggering, he is a gold soldier, and he follows orders. He plunges into her with a hard groan, and god — the sound of him needing, the feel of him insider her, is more than she knows how to survive. He rocks once, and she buries her face into his neck to muffle her whimpering.

"F-fuck," he gasps when she rocks back into him.

Five minutes. They are making too much noise — ragged breathing, punctuated by moans when he hits the right spot, when he kisses her savagely, hard enough to leave marks, when she retaliates by sucking hard on his neck, pulling his hair.

Four, she thinks through the haze of wanting him. Each thrust drives her back into the wall, and she braces herself against him. They are too loud and too active, and a handful of a brooms next to them topple over with a loud clatter, but she barely notices. All she knows is this — his fingers digging into her flesh, his lips everywhere he can reach, the desperate groan that fills him when he drives especially deep. She will be sore after this, and she doesn't care.

"Hurry," she moans. "Oh god—"

She loses track of the time when his greedy mouth moves to her neck. She is spiraling higher, growing and shivering, and he knows it — he drives her, pushes her, stroking exactly where he knows she needs it. When she comes, she bites her fist to muffle the long, shuddering moan that will give them away. There is no other way to pass off such a sound

"You're so loud," he says against her cheek as she trembles. "You're so — fuck …"

They are pressed brow to brow, his nose digging into her cheek — his wavy hair tickles her forehead each time he thrusts, She is holding him tightly, swallowing the hard cry rising up in her throat, though she thinks she will die from the need of it, from the fierce satisfaction as she feels him come apart beneath her, inside her— his breathing more ragged, his hands more desperate, lapsing into broken, vulgar French —

"Hurry," she whispers, sliding her hands into his hair, pressing the words into his skin.

And he does. He can't help it, neither of them can. He kisses her deeply, and as he comes his moans fill her mouth — too loud, and yet not loud enough.

They are breathing hard, thrilling and aching from sated need. They don't move for a long minute, and she knows he doesn't want to separate just yet, and she doesn't either. If they had waited until tonight, they wouldn't have had to.

"You're too fucking loud," he finally says, lips at the corner of her mouth, his voice trembling.

"You're the one that knocked over the brooms."

"No I didn't."

She grins, shaking in his arms. "Yeah you did. Thrusting away like a savage."

She thinks that he might be grinning too. "You like it that way."


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Prompt by obitual-devotion - The SEX DEVIANTS REVENGE SAGA**

The first time had been an accident; he'd swear it on his fucking kill count. All the times after it too, for that matter. Erd didn't believe him, and Gunther probably didn't either, but that didn't change the truth. Auruo could have gone his whole lousy life without knowing that Gunther had a mole on his ass, or that Erd liked having his hair pulled. He really fucking could have.

It started innocently, as all awful things do. Petra swept into his room one afternoon as he was writing letters, her face contorted by worry. "Have you seen Erd?" she asked.

Auruo rubbed his eyes. "Haven't seen anyone but you today."

"You know, you could probably write everyone one big letter and leave it at that," she said, grinning.

He could, but he wouldn't. "Don't think it's any of your business, nag."

Of course, she was not put off by the term or the rebuff – at this point in their relationship, it had practically taken the shape of an endearment. She perched on the corner of the desk with a cute grin. "Come on. Help me find Erd."

"I still gotta finish this –"

"You could use a break," she cut in, cupping his face and tracing under his eyes with her thumbs. "Your eyes are all puffy."

"They are not."

"I'm looking right at them, and they are."

He scowled. "Well, gee fuckin' whiz."

"Come on. We can make an outing of it."

"An outing of finding Erd. Be still my heart."

"An outing with me," she clarified, and it was true. "Don't make me wander around looking for him all by myself."

"You could probably find him a lot faster if you let me finish my goddamn letters."

She scooted closer, pouting. "What about if I ask nicely?"

"Do you even know how to ask nicely?"

Now he'd done it. She turned the full force of her gaze on him, batting her eyelashes, amber eyes huge and needy. "Please?" she whispered. "Please?"

She lived for this shit – lived for flustering him out of his goddamn skull. "Geez, Petra," he managed, shuddering when she leaned close, trailing her nose against the live skin of his neck.

She was so close that her breath warmed his cheek. "I'll let you be big spoon tonight."

Damn it. If this meant they could circumnavigate the usual argument and go right to him pulling her close, burying his face against her neck, his hands wandering … He sighed, making a big show of capitulation. "Fine. Fine. Keep your fuckin' hair on."

Abruptly her grin was back, and before he could duck out of the way she planted a wet kiss at the corner of his mouth. It was a game, that familiar game they played - she knew what would happen, probably why she'd chosen the spot in the first place – so he pulled her into his lap and returned that kiss in earnest, grinning when she squealed.

All behind closed doors, of course. This was the military, and there were rules; to either abide by, or break in secret. "Come on," she said breathlessly, just as he was about to get to the good part. "I really do need to talk to Erd."

"What's he got that I don't, huh?"

"For one thing, he's second in command and you're not. Don't be a child."

"You're the fuckin' child."

But he acquiesced, kissing the exact place between her breasts before buttoning her shirt, grinning when she made a wanting sound. "That's not fair," she said, breathless.

"You're the one who needs to see Erd right fuckin' now," he smirked as he buckled the strap across her chest.

"You're awful."

"You like it."

Suitably done up and put together, they left his room and began the search. It wasn't exactly odd that they couldn't find him – today was a lull day, those precious, infrequent days that happened between preparation for a new expedition, the actual expeditions themselves, and the various duties they were expected to carry out while on base.

But as the hours passed and the search grew longer, Auruo frowned – it was odd that no one had actually seen Erd today. While on assignment he was the very picture of duty, but off hours he was loud, hyperactive, constantly laughing and grinning and making as much noise as humanly possible, with quiet Gunther in his shadow.

"Maybe something happened," Auruo said a few hours later.

"Like what?"

"Dunno. Maybe he broke his neck."

She punched his arm. "Why do you always assume the worst?"

"Fuck – ow! Because I'm a realistic person!"

"You are the opposite of a realistic person," she said. But she frowned, and he knew it was because she was starting to worry.

On a whim, they decided to check Gunther's room. They found him sitting at his desk with a farseeing look in his eyes. Daydreaming again? He jumped when he saw them. "Uh – can I help you?"

"Have you seen Erd?" Petra asked him.

" … ah, not … recently."

"Well, we've been looking everywhere for him and we're starting to get worried," Petra said, hands on hips, tone sharp with recrimination – reverting to nag mode. Auruo bit back a grin; once she got going, only disaster could throw her off her stride. "I mean, he's usually around on lull days but no one has seen him, not even you! And you're always together. So I mean – maybe something is really wrong! Gunther, aren't you worried? Maybe something happened to him."

Gunther cleared his throat, and inexplicably a blush rose in his cheeks. " … I'm sure he's fine."

"But what if he isn't?! He could be hurt somewhere. You know how much he likes those stupid challenges. Like the time he stole Hange's chairs and went jousting with them. You remember, with broomstick lances? He's lucky he didn't lose an eye."

Auruo sure remembered; he hadn't been able to stop laughing for the whole night, not even after Petra banished him to his own room for being obnoxious (then later sneaked into his because she couldn't sleep without having him there). But Gunther's blush deepened, and that's when Auruo got suspicious. He was acting pretty shifty – his eyes darting around the room, sweating, like a person unaccustomed to subterfuge suddenly expected to perform it. Is he … ?

"I think you should help us look, Gunther," Petra said firmly. "We'll find him faster if we all look."

"N-no, I don't think –"

"Something could really be wrong!" she insisted.

"Yeah, Gunther," Auruo said, suspicion making his tone sly. "Aren't you worried 'bout dear old Erd?"

"Come on," Petra said, taking a step over the threshold. "It won't take long."

"It sure won't," Auruo added, grinning.

Gunther had by now turned the color of ripe plums. He held up his hands and shook his head, his mouth moving wordlessly.

"What's wrong, Gunther?" Auruo asked innocently. "Should we not come in?"

There was muffled cursing from under the table, the sound of someone smacking their head on polished wood, and then – "YOU ASSHOLES!" After a moment, Erd's head popped up from under the desk, with a blush that matched Gunther's exactly. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

Petra froze, eyes wide, rendered totally speechless by the picture their esteemed second in command posed. And they both saw it, the crowning glory of Erd's compromising position; passion mused hair, and a tendril of spit hanging from the corner of his mouth. No question at all how it had come about.

Auruo couldn't help it. He burst into laughter (partly because it was funny, partly because he couldn't think of anything else to do), and Gunther went so red that a trickle of blood dripped from his nose, which only made Auruo laugh harder. He swiped at the corner of his own mouth and made a valiant attempt to not to choke on his tongue. The blond man got it instantly, wiping his face with the back of his hand, and for once he seemed to have nothing to say.

"Sorry to have bothered you!" Petra squeaked, grabbing Auruo's arm and hauling him out of the room.

They were halfway down the hall when Petra punched him hard. "You shouldn't have laughed!"

"Wh—it was funny!" Auruo snickered. "For crying out loud, he had this huge wad of spit hanging out of his mouth."

"Maybe someone should walk in on you and laugh at your pathetic efforts, see how you like it."

"Hey now," he said, smirking down at her. "That's not what you said last night."

Her frustrated blush deepened. "I was just trying to make you feel better. Build up your fragile ego."

"You're so full of shit."

* * *

If it had happened only once, Auruo would have forgotten all about it. As far as he was concerned, it wasn't his business what Erd and Gunther did in their spare time, just like it was no one's business what he and Petra did with theirs. (That thing she did last night, though …he still couldn't think straight.) Anyway, he wasn't some kind of pervert, either – he had no interest in their personal life.

But from that moment on, he was cursed. No matter where he was or what he was doing, he couldn't seem to stop finding them in compromising positions, each one worse than the last.

First, it was kind of funny, in an awful, uncomfortable way. He'd walked through the mess in the middle of the night (Petra had wanted some water) and seen the pair of them entwined in a passionate embrace, belts half undone. He probably should have just walked on and said nothing, but Auruo was not exactly famous for thinking things through.

"The fuckin' mess hall, really?" he called, grinning. "You get off on being seen or something?"

Erd threw an empty mug at him, which missed his head by inches and shattered spectacularly on the wall.

"Night, perverts," he called with a jaunty wave over his shoulder.

Auruo could have handled it on those terms – kissing and the suggestion of something more. He could have kept laughing at it, because why not. He kept insisting to Petra that it was funny, really fucking funny, ha ha those morons making out in public, were they trying to be discovered?

It was almost like the unknowable asshole that governed the universe took personal issue with him laughing at his stupid, dumbshit comrades, because then Auruo started walking in on them well in the middle of their efforts, and he saw far more of them then he ever wanted.

Specifically, he wandered into the stables, intent on his chores, only to find Erd bent over a bale of hay, Gunther with his hands fisted in the former's hair.

And yeah - he saw everything. He fucking saw it all.

"Gah – what the fuck!?" he howled. "What the fuck?!

Literally.

"Are you kidding me?!" Erd shouted, shoving Gunther into one of the stables and scrambling to cover himself. "Are you doing this on purpose?!"

Auruo was agog. "You seriously think I'm just sniffing around looking for you stupid degenerates?!"

"Are you?!"

"NO!" he screeched before fleeing.

Petra found him many hours later, face down on his bed, desperately trying to scrub his brain of the foul transgressions he had witnessed. She sat next to him and gently touched his shoulder. "Gunther told me what happened."

"I'm being punished," Auruo muttered. "I'm being made to suffer by an uncaring god."

"I think you're being dramatic," she said, obviously trying to be equitable.

He rounded on her. "You don't know," he hissed. "You didn't see."

"See what?"

"IT!"

She shot him a very impatient, uncharitable look. "Explain what 'it!' is right now or I'm leaving you to wallow."

"The mole," Auruo moaned. "On his ass. Every time I see Gunther now, every time I gotta ask him some shit about an expedition or tell him to go do something, I'm just going to be thinking about that goddamn mole … thrusting away …" He buried his face in the pillow. "Ugh."

"Auruo, come on," she said. "You saw them having sex. There's a lot of people having sex around here."

"Doesn't mean I want to see it."

"You kind of brought this on yourself, you know."

"How?! I've just been going about my goddamn business and around every fucking corner, there they are … FUCKING. Like they want to be caught! Like it gets them off. I'm going to throw up."

"If you throw up on me, I'm kicking you out."

"THIS IS MY ROOM, WOMAN!"

But she grinned, unperturbed by such petty distinctions. "Come on. We're all adults here. Well, theoretically," she amended with a pointed look at him.

"Yeah, that's right. Kick me while I'm down. You're a real gem. A real fuckin' princess."

"Auruo. Just – god. How many times have you seen me naked? And you can still work with me; sometimes fairly well, when you're in the mood for cooperation."

"It's different because I like your naked body. A lot. I think we've established that by now."

"I'll say," she said, rolling her eyes. "And I say this with a lot of love, okay?"

"Here we go."

She framed his face between her hands, biting back a smile. "Get over it."

He sighed. "Fine. Fine. Just – come here."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to try and get over it, just like you told me to. Because I'm a good person and I exist to please you."

"What nonsense." But she allowed him to curl around her, wrapping himself close, nuzzling her breasts. "How exactly is that going to help?"

"Your tits make everything better," he murmured, slipping a hand up her shirt.

* * *

But it happened again.

It happened six more times.

By this point, the circumstances had lost all the humor, for all parties involved. Not that there had been much humor for Gunther and Erd. But Auruo sure wasn't laughing anymore. He'd seen far more of his comrades that he ever wanted, and it was now something he had to live with. Something gross and unwanted.

But that sixth time – Erd and Gunther coiled into an impossible position (what even) and stuffed into an abandoned room – Erd swore revenge.

"That … is … it!" he hissed, hiding a furiously blushing Gunther behind himself. "You are doing this on purpose. You have to be."

"Right, right, because watching you fucking weirdos humping each other's brains out is right up there on my list of priorities," Auruo retorted. He might have laughed. The situation was so horrible that it had come out the other end into hilarity. He didn't know anymore.

"Laugh about it, Auruo," Erd snapped. "Go ahead. We'll see how you like it."

"Erd …" Gunther said, placating.

"No! I've had it! We'll see how funny it is when it's me laughing at you flailing away on Petra or whatever the hell it is that you do."

"Oh?" Auruo definitely laughed then – flailing away was hardly what Petra would call it. "Good fuckin' luck."

In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have said that.

* * *

Erd was as good as his vow; in fact possessed by the insane desire for retribution. On duty, the four of them were the very picture of purpose (including the purposeful way they avoided looking at each other), but idle hours were fair game. Open fucking war. Any chance he got, Erd threw open doors and closets with feral intensity, scanning the contents of the room before resuming the search, Gunther trailing along in his wake.

Petra was not pleased.

"You shouldn't have laughed at him," she scolded Auruo as they walked back to her room.

"He's fuckin' ridiculous," Auruo retorted. "You would have laughed too."

Her frown deepened, that cute little wrinkle forming between her brows. "Not to his face."

"Well, gee fuckin' whiz! That's so much better, isn't it!"

Her reply was to punch his arm, hard enough that he stumbled into the wall. He figured at this point in their relationship, he had a permanent bruise on his bicep in the shape of her knuckles.

Erd might have gotten them a few times too, had Auruo and Petra not adopted a policy of extreme caution. They snuck into her room, and he proceeded to sleep while she wrote her father a letter. When Erd finally threw open her door, the worst he saw was that Auruo had taken off his jacket, bunching it under his head.

"What do you want, Erd?" Petra said, tone long suffering.

"Just checking for anything … untoward."

Petra was not amused. "I'm writing letters. Auruo's sleeping."

He hadn't been for a while, and he couldn't help grinning now. "You think we're as dumb as you, Erd? Sad. Tragic. Utterly heartbreaking."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you think we're dumb enough to fuck in obvious places like you!"

"You-!"

Petra stood, jabbing at the door with her pen. "That's it! Out! Get the hell out of my room! I've had it with this dumb feud! Just get the hell out or I'll kick your bony butt over Wall Rose!"

She shoved a protesting Erd and Gunther out into the hallway and slammed the door before rounding on Auruo. "And you."

Auruo sat up, actually kind of scared. "Come on, Petra … calm down."

Fuck – he'd forgotten that the worst thing anyone could do when Petra was pissed was tell her to calm down. She bristled like a wet cat, eyes blazing. "No, I will not calm down! I'm sick of this! This whole thing is worse because you keep antagonizing him!"

"Antagonizing -?! What, are we four years old?"

"Honestly, I'm wondering that myself!"

He bit down on the heated retort, because the last thing he wanted was to be banished back to his own room. "Alright, alright. Fuck – Petra. I'm sorry." He reached for her. "Come on."

She allowed him to pull her close, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his cheek against her stomach, but she did not relax. "I'm serious, Auruo. This is so stupid. I don't want to hear about it anymore."

He decided to keep the fact that he hadn't been purposely barging in on Erd and Gunther to himself; Erd was the one who had turned it into a personal vendetta. "You're right," he said, placating. "We're horrible and you're wonderful. We're dumb and you're smart. Really fuckin' smart. And you smell nice. Have I mentioned lately how nice you smell?"

He looked up, saw her lips twitching against a grin. "Auruo …"

He inhaled for good measure. "Like roses. Like a fuckin' bouquet."

"You're ridiculous," she said, in a tone that suggested he was anything but.

Grinning, he tipped her onto the bed.

* * *

So, they were careful. Sort of. Careful-ish. He was as careful as he could be with someone like Petra, who by some fluke of luck found him acceptable enough to allow him to touch her, often and while naked. But the longer they went without an incident, the more confident they became that Erd had forgotten his vendetta. Being that he was a soldier, he should have known that overconfidence breeds mistakes.

Well, he'd never make that fucking mistake again.

It was a few minutes before the lunch bell. Petra tugged on his wrist with that look in her eye, and he followed. Hell, he'd follow her over a cliff the moment she crooked her finger in his direction. They checked the hall – empty. They checked the site of their intended deed – empty. They checked the hall again – totally fucking empty. With another coy grin, she shoved him into the broom closet and pulled the door shut behind her.

"Fuck – ow!"

"Shh!"

"You're going to break my fuckin' back one of these days, woman."

"Stop whining."

He grinned down at her, pulling her close. Slats of light from under the door barely illuminated her face. "I love it when you tell me what to do," he growled.

"Good," she fired back, matching his grin. "Now shut up and kiss me."

Yes, ma'am.

They'd gotten pretty good at stealing quick moments in less than appropriate places, which meant they'd gotten really fucking good at disassembling their uniforms enough to facilitate a quick fuck. He could do it all in his sleep, at this point – not that he ever would. He unbuckled the strap across her chest and unbuttoned her shirt, cupping her breasts, brushing, touching, fuck - grinning when she shivered ecstatically under his hands. And maybe that happened every time he so much as touched her, but he'd never get used to the fact that she seemed to like it as much as he did.

"Hurry," she whispered against his neck as she quickly unfastened his pants and slipped her hands inside, curling around his cock, stroking once, fuck –

"Keep your fuckin' hair on," he managed.

Yeah, he'd never get used to how much she liked that either.

God, she fucking drove him crazy – every single fucking thing she did, each little sound she made, the way she touched him, the fact that she just couldn't seem to get enough of him. He'd never get over it. The way she rocked into him, gripping him tightly, her legs wrapped around his waist, the way she shivered around him when he entered her – fuck …

"Auruo," she moaned, going tight – so fucking wet, god – "Auru—ohh."

And, fuck – the way she turned his name into something filthy, something obscene and amazing, god he fucking loved it.

Her hands in his hair, pulling. Her lips on his neck, sucking, teeth grazing, fuck – riding him, turning in circles, turning him inside fucking out, unraveling him – nails dragging over his scalp, and all the while the feel of her, the fucking feel of her, **fuck – **he was right there, he was going to –

The door flew open.

Erd and Gunther – the former with an expression of feral glee.

He and Petra – half naked, panting, coiled like a fucking spring.

He wasn't really sure of the exact sequence of events, being that his mind was still halfway buried between her tits, halfway inside her still. He was strangely businesslike – not pissed yet, but oh fuck was that coming. Petra squealed, and he pressed her tight against his chest, so those fucking perverts couldn't ogle. He shoved Erd and Gunther out of the closet and pulled the door shut.

He did it all while still hilt deep in her.

"God—god," she was whispering, grabbing her shirt with shaking fingers. "They – god."

He buttoned her shirt for her. He buckled her chest strap. He saw to himself last – all to the sound of Erd from the other side of the door. Only then did she notice his expression. "Auruo?"

"Hm?"

"What are you doing?"

"Getting dressed."

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothing," he assured her. "No thing. Nope"

"Auruo …"

He checked to make sure she was put together. He checked to make sure he was put together. He opened the closet door, looked up into the smug smirking face of his second in command, and proceeded to punch tackle him to the ground.

"You – you fuckin' pervert!" Auruo snarled, pummeling him. "You – fuckin' ASSHOLE! What, you want to get a good look at Petra, you fuckin' shithead? You – you fuckin' PERVERT!"

He probably would have ripped Erd's head off if Gunther hadn't intervened – he lifted Auruo off Erd like he weighed nothing, and no matter how hard Auruo thrashed he could not break the bigger man's hold. "And you too, you – you fuckin –"

"Stop!" Petra hissed. "Gunther, put him down. Auruo – don't!"

He made a wordless sound of outrage, pointing at them. "They -!"

"Just … all of you, for the love of god, please stop." She pinched the bridge of her nose with one shaking hand. "Erd, if I catch you doing something like this again, I'm going to Levi. Gunther, I can't believe you went along with him. I – I can't even look at either of you."

"But he -!" Erd retorted.

"I don't care. So help me, if you say he started it, I will – I will finish it!" She was in full on nag mode now, and Auruo thought through the haze of temper and thwarted lust that he kind of loved her. Maybe more than kind of. Or something. "You're supposed to be comrades. This feud is – childish! It's childish. You're all children."

She rounded on them all. "I swear to god! I want this over with! If you think someone's doing something, please knock. Knock on the 's not hard." She balled her hands into shaking fists. "No more of this … this stupid bullshit!"

Yeah, he loved her. Especially when she swore. "All right," he said, trying not to smile. Still pissed, sure, but there it was.

"All right," Erd echoed, staring holes into his boots.

" 'right," Gunther said last, his face a furious red.

"Good," Petra said. "Now go away."

God, he fucking loved it when she told people what to do. Erd and Gunther muttered their replies and turned around, making their way down the hallway. He turned to follow them when she caught his wrist, yanking him back a little. "Not you."

"Wh-?"

Holy fuck – she was actually shooting him another coy grin. "I'm not done with you."

"Are you serious?!"

"Do I look like I'm not?"

No. No she didn't. He let her push him into the closet again, curling around him, her lips on his ear. "God, marry me," he said.

"Not that joke again," she muttered, slipping her hands in his pants.

He didn't have long – he had about two seconds to tell her that it wasn't a joke, that she was literally fucking perfect in every way and he'd be so lucky to get a yes to that question one of these days, but then was jerking him off again, and all lucid thought left him.

"F-fuck …" he moaned. Fucking tangled in knots over her. Just the way she liked it.


End file.
